Читать книгу The Women's Club - Abusive partners are winding up dead… Criminals who target women are the victims of nasty accidents… Pretend it's not happening, you might live longer - Michael Crawley - Страница 6

Jack Hale unscrewed the top of his gold Mont Blanc fountain pen and set it on his desk blotter at a precise right angle to his chequebook. His daughter, Celia, was due at any moment. When she asked, as he was sure she would, it’d be better if he already had everything he needed to write her a cheque. The pause between someone saying, ‘Of course I’ll lend you the money,’ and the act of actually handing it over was always an awkward one, probably on both sides, though he’d never been the borrower.

He forced himself to sit down. Standing, he’d have paced. How pathetic was that? What sort of a man became nervous at the prospect of a visit from his own daughter? When they’d lived in the same home for all those years, he’d barely been aware of her comings and goings. He’d been too busy making the money that kept a roof over the heads of his family and food in their bellies. Not to mention the music, the art and those goddam wasted dance classes for Celia, and vacations and outfits and near constant redecorating of the house for Marion. Excellent health care and good cars, too. They’d never wanted for a single thing, either of them. At least, not for anything material.

He jumped up. Damn. He was already defending himself and she wasn’t even here. It was hopeless, hopeless …

Jack felt the pain in his chest that had once sent him out walking the dog for hours, and before that in search of a drink or, when he’d been younger still, on the prowl. Now that he was older he knew what it was that battered at his ribs like a baby rattling the wooden slats of an old fashioned playpen.

Jack wanted his life to have meaning; all men did. The joke was on him, though. Now that he’d retired from a long, successful career and he’d had time to think about it, two long years in fact, he’d realised that what he’d heard and even said all his adult life was actually true. In the end, only family matters.

‘Damn.’ He began to pace, too tortured by his lifelong stupidity to be still for another second.

He wanted his Celia back. He wanted his beautiful, adoring baby girl back. He emphasised the thought with a fist smacked in a palm, as if he were giving a PowerPoint presentation to a group of executives, and not as if he were all alone.

Always alone.

If he could be granted just one wish it’d be for his curly-topped poppet of a perfect toddler to reappear and give him another chance to do it right. Yes, even if he were given a wish so powerful that he could use it to bring Marion back from the dead, he’d sacrifice it for the chance to nurture that cute little kid again.

But he’d settle for getting to know the woman she’d become. He snapped back to reality, cursing the way his mind had taken to flights of fancy. All Jack had to do was play his cards right and Celia would come back to him. He was sure of it. Almost sure. Even if it’d only be for a little while, just long enough to give her away, to the right guy, of course. That would be fine. Great, in fact. Because after marriage, surely children would soon follow. And whenever he thought of grandchildren, that tantrum-throwing toddler kicking at his ribs settled right down. Baby wants a playmate, is all.

Real tears wet his eyes. Jack swiped at them impatiently. Age – it was impossible to tolerate the way it softened a man. Although, in truth, he’d never been the same since Marion had died. His eyes welled again. What the hell. Maybe he should take a quick shot. ‘Stiff upper lip and all that,’ as his immigrant grandfather would have said. Jack almost laughed.

Chimes played a six-note melody. Celia was exactly four minutes late, which for her was very prompt. Jack opened the door. There she was, his mid-life child, born twenty-seven years ago, three days before his fortieth birthday; his just-in-time daughter, Celia, Jack’s last, his only family connection.

‘Celia! Lovely to see you!’ He couldn’t stop himself from hugging her, as if he could somehow squeeze an ounce of affection out of her too-thin body.

‘Dad, you’re creasing my suit.’ She pulled her skinny frame free of his grasp and slipped past him. Celia was dark and intense, with huge green eyes that could soften like mist or harden into jade.

‘Sorry.’ He clapped her on the back as she passed, then grimaced when she grimaced.

‘Ouch,’ she said under her breath but loud enough for him to hear.

‘Come on in! Sit down.’ He followed her to the living room, ordering himself to pull back. But even as his mind gave the command his mouth opened and he blurted, ‘It’s been so long,’ before he could swallow the words.

‘Only six weeks. I’ve been busy.’

Jack chuckled enthusiastically. ‘Busy drumming up business, are we? I can’t fault you for that. It’s what I always did.’

‘Yeah, like father like daughter.’ She glanced around but didn’t sit. Instead, she started tapping one toe.

Jack tried not to take offence. Celia was a tightly wound girl, had been since puberty. She gave off an air of impatience whenever she wasn’t actively engaged in something. If she didn’t do idle well, neither did he. Retirement had certainly proved that.

He clapped his hands, which made him instantly feel like a phoney. ‘So – any luck?’

The corners of her mouth twitched. ‘I’m not complaining.’ She wandered to his desk and gave his chequebook a prod. ‘You can put this away.’

‘Really? I just assumed…’

‘That I’d come to borrow more money from you because there’s absolutely no way that your daughter’s business could survive without regular handouts from her father?’

‘I didn’t mean…’

‘It’s a reasonable assumption, given our history.’

‘So this is a social call?’ Jack grinned, then wiped it off his face. It made him feel foolish. ‘You’ve just come to visit me?’ A foolish phoney, for Jesus Christ’s sake.

‘Not exactly. I mainly came to bring you this.’ She handed him an envelope.

In it was a cheque for $87,500. ‘What?’ Jack staggered back a step, as if she’d handed him the amount in gold ingots, not on paper. ‘Are you sure?’

‘That’s exactly half of your investment in my company repaid. In about another month, two at the most, you’ll have the rest, plus interest.’

‘You didn’t need… I didn’t expect…’

‘That I’d ever pay you back?’

‘That’s not what I meant.’ Jack looked around as if for support, but there was no one there but him and his kid. ‘Celia, I’m delighted that you’re doing so well, and in this economy. Sit down; stay a while. This is fantastic news.’

She perched, grinning, on the edge of his desk, something that he hated people doing, even her. ‘You’ve seen the new Crafter’s Ale commercials?’

Jack nodded. He’d seen them but had considered them sexually exploitative. He found the idea of his daughter being connected to them oddly embarrassing, as if he’d accidentally seen her naked.

‘Those ads are mine! I’ve also just secured the Rendex Realty account. Right now my advertising agency is the hottest one in Seattle.’

‘Fantastic! I’m so proud of you. Just promise me that you won’t leave yourself short.’

A frown creased her perfect forehead. ‘I know how to do the accounting, Dad.’

‘Of course. I didn’t mean…’

‘And I’m not trying to be a success just so you’ll be proud of me.’

‘No, of course not.’

‘I gave that up when I crapped out of ballet.’

‘You didn’t – I wasn’t…’ Jack was befuddled by the sudden shift in topic. And the drop in temperature. Celia’s cold front, which never entirely lifted, had settled in again.

‘Nothing changes, huh, Dad?’

He wanted to say, ‘I’ve changed,’ but her attention had shifted from him to the room. She had a habit of jabbing him hard in the gut, metaphorically speaking, and then turning away while he was still trying to recover from the blow.

Celia gestured with one elegant but bony arm. ‘Everything’s in its place, same as ever. God, Dad, right down to those doily things on the backs of the armchairs.’

‘Antimacassars,’ Jack said automatically.

Celia rolled her eyes. ‘Whatever. They’re awfully old, Dad.’

‘They’re antique lace, from Bruges. Your mother and I bought them on our second trip to Europe. They mean something.’

‘They mean that you’re still wallowing, Dad.’

‘I don’t agree.’ Jack glanced around the living room, which suddenly seemed quaint and a touch shabby, like his grandma’s house before she’d been hauled off to the nursing home. Christ, he’d thought his days of redecorating were over.

Celia cocked her head, obviously waiting for more.

‘Your mother had excellent taste,’ he muttered.

‘For her era, I guess. But it’s past time you added a few touches of your own. A heavy leather club chair, or two? A ship in a bottle? Crossed swords over the fireplace?’ Her lips twitched with amusement.

Jack grinned again, and again felt so foolish, so pandering, that he wiped it off his face in an instant.

‘Manly stuff?’

‘Exactly. This is a man’s residence now. Women like that, you know. It gives us something to change, once we have you men hooked.’ She watched him for a beat, then sighed. ‘I’m just kidding around, Dad.’

‘Yes, I know that. I’m trying to think of something manly I might get, like a – a coat of arms, perhaps, suspended over the dining room table?’ It was too late to join in the fun, now, but he couldn’t stop himself from trying. ‘I wonder what our family motto might be?’

She shrugged. ‘Whatever. I know you’ll never change. Old dogs and new tricks, right?’

The insult was so slight it barely rankled him to ignore it. Celia hitched off the desk, leaving his blotter askew. ‘Well, I gotta go!’

‘No! Don’t!’ His vehemence startled them both. ‘I mean, gee whiz, we have to celebrate, don’t we? And now I’ve got all this money burning a hole in my pocket. Let me take you out to dinner at least.’

‘Spend it on your girlfriend, Dad. Or invest it in getting yourself one.’

‘I don’t – that isn’t…’

‘You’ve got to get a social life. I mean, come on, you come into some unexpected extra dough and all you can dream up is dinner with your kid?’

‘I love spending time with you.’ There. He’d managed to state that fact without pleading like a puppy for her love. Let her make of it what she would.

‘You need a girlfriend.’

‘No.’ Jack tried not to frown. ‘It’s too soon, Celia. Your mother…’

‘Jesus, my Mother is dead. You know, if you’d paid as much attention to her when she was alive as you do now that she’s gone…’

A direct hit. He felt that stiffness he’d been so sorely lacking surge through his skeleton. The insolence of the girl. As if no one but she had the right to miss Marion. Despite himself, He scowled.

Celia didn’t notice, of course.

‘Let’s not argue.’ She produced a tiny flat electronic device and thumbed it. ‘Dinner, you say? Are you free Friday?’

‘For you? Of course I am.’ His voice was flat. Nothin’ but the facts, Ma’am.

Celia said, ‘That’s it, then. Pick me up at seven-thirty for dinner at eight. We’ll eat at Molino’s. I’ll make the reservation.’

‘I’ll take care of that, making the reservation.’

‘You’d never get one, but I will. Like I said, Dad, my agency’s hot. I can get in anywhere I want. I’ve got influence.’

‘I’m impressed.’

Her foot began that incessant, nervous, tapping business. ‘I guess after all these years, it’s about time I did something to impress you.’

Jack’s shoulders sagged. She’d only been there for ten minutes and he was exhausted already. The bloody kid was going to be the end of him. Celia was gone before he could collect his thoughts, never mind get his weary bones moving to accompany her to the door.

He succumbed to the impulse to straighten his blotter, then felt guilty for doing it.

Jack hastily amended his one magic wish. ‘Give me back my Marion and to hell with the kid.’