Читать книгу Blossom Street - Debbie Macomber - Страница 77

BETHANNE HAMLIN

Bethanne turned off the vacuum cleaner and listened. Sure enough, the phone was ringing. She debated letting the answering machine pick up, but she’d left job applications at a number of businesses and didn’t want to miss a call from a prospective employer.

Hurrying into the kitchen, she drew in a calming breath and grabbed the receiver. “This is Bethanne Hamlin,” she said in her most professional voice.

“We need to talk.”

Deflated, Bethanne leaned against the kitchen wall. She didn’t want to deal with her ex-husband again. Their last meeting, at the café on Blossom Street, had left her reeling with resentment and anger. “Hello, Grant, how unpleasant to hear from you,” she murmured sweetly.

“I’m coming over.”

She bit back the words to tell him she would choose the time and place of their next meeting, but it would do little good. After twenty years of marriage she knew Grant’s moods. She could tell from his tone that he was furious and wouldn’t be put off.

“Fine,” she said curtly.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Fine.” The unnamed problem was apparently urgent enough for Grant to take time off in the middle of the day—something that hardly ever happened. She hung up and returned to her vacuuming.

Exactly seven minutes after his call, she heard the knob twist and then a heavy fist pounding against the front door. Grant mistakenly assumed he had the right to walk into her home. Well, she’d fixed that. After the divorce was final, Bethanne had changed the locks, and it gave her a sense of satisfaction to thwart him now.

“Did you think I intended to break in?” he snarled when she unlocked the door and stepped aside to let him into the house.

“I wasn’t about to give you the opportunity,” she snarled back. She wanted him to know that he was only there now with her express permission.

Grant charged into the kitchen, then whirled around to face her. “Did you put Annie up to this?” he demanded, his eyes spitting fire at her.

“To what?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” He glared at her, fists clenched at his sides. “Where is she anyway?”

“If you’re referring to our daughter, all I can tell you is that she’s out.” Bethanne folded her arms over her chest and relaxed, leaning her hip against the kitchen counter. She’d tried to warn him, had done her level best to let him know what she’d discovered. Grant had dismissed her worry, as he so often had in the past. In her view, that meant any mischief Annie had visited on Tiffany was his problem, not hers.

“You knew—and you didn’t say a word!”

“What are you talking about? I warned you about the way she felt—the way she still feels.” She sighed with exaggerated patience. “If you recall, I mentioned that I’d read Annie’s journal.” Bethanne didn’t know what her daughter had done on this particular occasion, only that Annie festered with rage.

Grant started to pace. “All you said was that she’s angry.”

“Correction,” she snapped. “That was all you let me say. As I remember the conversation, you brushed aside my concern and said Annie would get over it in time.” She sighed again. “What did she do?”

“You don’t know?”

Bethanne shrugged. “She’s hurting and she blames Tiffany. I assume she had some bedwetting information mailed to her.” She’d read that in the journal and been privately amused. There’d been plenty of other items Annie had requested in Tiffany’s name. Immature and annoying behavior, yes—but what had really shocked Bethanne was the pure hatred her daughter felt for the other woman. Her words were full of spite and anger, to the point that Bethanne knew something had to be done. Annie refused to discuss it, and Grant refused to listen. Bethanne had made an appointment with the therapist she’d seen briefly after Grant’s defection; she wanted to talk about the situation, get some advice, maybe arrange for Annie to see her, too.

“Having all that crap sent to the apartment is mail fraud, and it isn’t a laughing matter. But that’s not the half of it. She’s gone way over the line this time.”

“How unfortunate you have to deal with more junk mail than usual,” Bethanne said sarcastically, knowing it was a childish response. “My sympathies to you both.”

Grant scowled at her. “I can’t thank you enough for your support,” he muttered. “Especially since I’ve spent the last hour dealing with Tiff who’s hysterical because someone poured sugar down her gas tank.”

“No,” Bethanne gasped.

“One guess who’s at the top of the suspect list.”

“Oh, no.” This was much worse than Bethanne had expected. Grant was probably right, too—it was a step up from requesting nuisance mail, but exactly the type of revenge Annie could wreak.

“That’s a serious offense,” he said. “We haven’t talked to the cops yet, but—”

“Would you really prosecute your own daughter?” Grant had sunk lower than she’d ever thought he would, but she’d never dreamed he’d turn Annie over to the authorities.

“It isn’t me she’s doing this to, it’s Tiff.”

Tiff, it was. Poor, poor Tiff. “Then perhaps you should have Tiff discuss the matter with Annie and work this out.”

“That’s not all,” he shouted. “Annie’s done her best to make Tiffany’s life and mine a living hell. You don’t even want to know about the horrible garbage she’s sent via the Internet. Why can’t you control your daughter?”

“Listen. Annie’s your daughter, too, and her secure and happy life was uprooted because her father’s brains are located below his belt buckle.”

“Damn it, Bethanne, I don’t have to put up with that kind of verbal abuse from you. We’re divorced.”

“Fine, then,” she said, gesturing at the front door. “Get out of my house.”

“The only reason you have this house is because I gave it to you.”

“Gave it to me?” she cried, outraged he’d even suggest such a thing. “Gave it to me mortgaged to the hilt. There’s not a penny’s equity in this place, thanks to you.”

“But who’s making the payments?” he challenged. “Don’t forget I’m the one signing those alimony checks—which allow you to keep this house. And that reminds me, do you have a job yet?” This was asked with such blatant sarcasm, Bethanne cringed.

She closed her eyes and tried to control her anger. She didn’t want to argue with Grant. There was no point.

“All right, all right,” he said, apparently reaching the same conclusion. “I didn’t come here to fight. We need to develop some sort of plan to deal with Annie’s problem. This can’t go on.”

“She isn’t angry with me. You deal with her.” She wasn’t being flippant. Annie’s pain was caused by her father. Bethanne was making an effort to help, but anything she could do seemed more like damage control. Grant had to take some responsibility here.

Grant splayed his fingers through his hair. “I’m afraid Annie might do something to physically hurt Tiff,” he mumbled and shook his head. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“You’re worried about Tiffany?” Bethanne exploded.

“Damn straight I am. Someone who’d deliberately sabotage her car is one step from doing something physically aggressive.”

“What about Annie?” Bethanne asked, shocked that he could be so self-absorbed. “Aren’t you worried about her? Doesn’t she deserve any concern?”

“Of course I’m worried, but I can’t deal with her. She hates me. At least that’s the impression she’s given me. If you know something I don’t, then I’d appreciate being filled in.”

“That’s the problem,” Bethanne said in a shaky voice. “She desperately loves you and believe it or not, Annie needs her father. It was one thing to divorce me, but you weren’t supposed to divorce your children. When was the last time you talked to your daughter? You used to at least call her every week or two. I understand that’s stopped. Why? When did you last have a conversation with her—or Andrew, for that matter? Need I remind you these are your children, too?”

He looked down at his shoes. “I’ve been busy and—”

“Busy?” she cried. “Do you honestly expect me to consider that a valid excuse?”

“I don’t need you as my conscience. Besides, Annie and Andrew refuse to have anything to do with Tiff. They won’t even come to the condo because she might be there.”

“Talk to Annie,” she advised, setting her pride aside long enough to plead with him. “Call her up and take her to lunch. She needs assurances that you still care about her and that you want to be part of her life. But only if you’re sincere. Don’t just pay her lip service—that’ll do more harm than good.”

He nodded like a petulant child. “All right. I will. I’ll call her in a couple of days.” He hesitated, then gave her a wry smile. “Thanks, Bethanne.”

She shrugged. “You’re welcome.”

“How’s Andrew?”

Bethanne resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Ask him yourself.”

Grant cast her a chagrined look. “He wasn’t keen to have anything to do with me, with or without Tiff around.”

“Show up for a few of his football games in September, and my guess is he’d be willing to remember you’re his father again.”

Grant seemed to consider that. “Maybe I will.”

In other words, if it didn’t interfere with his schedule and he had nothing better to do.

She waited, thinking it was time he left, but Grant lingered as if there was something else on his mind. “I understand you and Paul Ormond recently got together,” he finally said.

“Who told you that?”

He offered her a half smile. “Word gets around. A guy from the office—you don’t know him—saw the two of you at Anthony’s the other night. What’s that about?”

“How did he know me?” she asked curiously.

“I had your picture on my credenza.”

Past tense, she noticed. The irony of the situation didn’t escape her. For two years he’d snuck around behind her back, having an affair, and not once had she gotten wind of it. But she had one date in twenty-two years, and someone reported it to Grant.

“Are you and Paul an item?” he asked.

Bethanne stopped herself just in time. It wasn’t any of his concern who she saw—or dated. Nor did he need to know that Paul had phoned two or three times since and encouraged her in her job search. They were simply friends, but she’d never had a male friend before.

“That’s between Paul and me.”

“In other words, I should mind my own business.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling gleefully. “I think you put it very well a few months ago. I have my own life now, Grant, and it is my life.”