Читать книгу A Baxter's Redemption - Patricia Johns - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

FAMILY SUNDAY DINNERS had been of paramount importance when Isabel’s mother was alive. Her fight with breast cancer had been fierce, but after she passed away, George Baxter had insisted on continuing the tradition, claiming she would have wanted it that way. After Isabel left for college and George married the young second Mrs. Baxter, family dinners evaporated along with half the furniture and the painted portrait of his first wife. So when her father called on Sunday morning, asking if she’d come for a family dinner, Isabel felt torn between nostalgia and misgiving.

Isabel stood in her miniscule kitchen, eating a bowl of strawberry yogurt with chopped banana. It was a favorite snack.

“Family dinner?” she asked incredulously, her cell phone pinched between her shoulder and cheek. “Do we still do that?”

“Yes, we still do that,” he retorted. “Be here at six. On the dot.”

“And Britney is okay with it?” she asked, entertaining some images of her young stepmother pouting through the whole thing. She licked off her spoon and gave her yogurt another stir.

“She’s fine. She likes the idea now that she’s pregnant.”

Isabel resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Okay. I’ll be there. Should I bring anything?”

“Like what?” he asked.

“Jell-O salad?” she asked teasingly. They had an aunt who used to bring Jell-O salad to every family gathering—wedding, funeral, picnic. It was a standing joke between father and daughter.

“Change that to wine, and you have yourself a deal.”

“Britney drinks while she’s pregnant?” Isabel asked.

“No. Shoot.” She could almost see her father’s discomfiture. He was as smooth as ice in anything business related, but when it came to family affairs, he fell apart. “Whatever. You and I will drink it. Just come.”

Isabel laughed aloud. “See you at six, Dad.”

Hanging up, she stood still for a full minute, staring down at her cell phone. A family dinner with Britney. She’d endured a mimosa at lunch, and that was about as far as she cared to push things, but her father seemed to want something more... And what could he really expect? If he’d at least married someone older than Isabel, she’d have a better idea of what to do.

It might not be as bad as it seemed, she thought wryly. She’d always liked family dinners—before Britney, at least. They were a good start to repairing her damaged relationship with her father. She turned back to her yogurt, determined to simply let the evening unfold without too much worry...if that was possible.

* * *

AT SIX O’CLOCK SHARP, Isabel stood on her father’s doorstep, a bottle of sparkling apple juice in hand. She’d had a moment of generosity in the grocery store and had decided to get something they could all share, something she was seriously regretting now that she was faced with a wine-free evening with her stepmother. Isabel wore a pink summer dress with a full skirt and a cinched waist. She wore her dark waves up in a messy bun at the back of her head, and she tucked up a stray tendril as she rang the doorbell. There had been a time when she would have just opened the door and gone in, but that was back when this old house had been her home. Perhaps it was her new, tiny accommodations, but the house seemed ominously large these days. Too big. Too sprawling. Too empty.

The door swung open to reveal her father, a surprise, since she’d expected to see the housekeeper. He ushered her in. He wore a pair of khaki pants paired with a dress shirt, open at the neck. His hair rose up in tufts on top of his head, and she smiled fondly.

“It’s good to have you home, Princess,” he said, leading the way into the sitting room.

“It feels different now,” she admitted quietly. “Where is Britney?”

“Upstairs. On the phone with her mother.”

Isabel attempted to hide her relief. It wasn’t often that she had time alone with her dad anymore. They sank into their old seats—her father in his leather armchair, and she took the end of the couch closest to him as she always had. They stared together at the mantel and the abstract print hanging above it, discordant colors splashed together.

“Is that awkward?” Isabel asked after a moment.

“What?” He glanced over, bushy eyebrows raised.

“Britney’s parents are your age. Isn’t that uncomfortable?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes. But it doesn’t matter how they see me. Only how Britney sees me.”

The comment was quietly honest, and Isabel felt her face heat. Did she really want to discuss this part of her father’s life? But they’d started, and she’d been wondering ever since the wedding...

“Does she make you feel young?” Isabel asked.

“She makes me feel loved.”

“I love you, Dad.”

“In a much different way.” He shot her a pointed look. “Can’t argue with that one, can you?”

Isabel chuckled. “No, I can’t.”

“So.” Her father pushed himself forward and leaned his forearms on his knees. “I heard that you’re thinking of starting a business with that money.”

So this was the reason for the visit. Maybe the nostalgia she’d been nursing was wasted, after all.

“Yes, I am,” she admitted. “I’ve just signed the papers for a lease.”

He winced. “I’m sure James can find you a loophole to get out of that.”

“Why?” she demanded. She’d known that he might disapprove, but it didn’t take the sting out of the unfairness.

“It’s not a good idea, Princess. Trust me.”

“You don’t even know what the idea is,” she retorted.

“The chocolate shop. Britney told me.”

A twist of distaste settled into her stomach. Of course Britney told him. She hadn’t expected her stepmother to keep a secret exactly, but she could only imagine the tattling kind of tone that would have dominated the conversation.

“Dad, you signed the money over to me. Would you rather I used it to travel for a few months?”

“I would rather you used it for plastic surgery.”

His words were sharp, and she froze. She’d momentarily forgotten about the scars. His words were crueler than he probably intended, but she wouldn’t be put off that easily.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dad, but I told you before—I’m not going under the knife again.”

“Okay, okay.” He heaved a sigh. “But still, it isn’t a good investment, Sweet Pea.”

Isabel sighed. He did this when he wanted to cajole her into doing things his way. She became Princess and Sweet Pea, and he expected her to bow to his superior wisdom.

“I’ve wanted to do this for years now,” she said.

“It doesn’t make it commercially viable,” he shot back. “Wanting something and making money off of it are two different things. You’re so much like your mother...”

“I’m actually a lot like you,” she snapped. “I only look like Mom.”

Her mother had been a beauty queen, too. She’d been gorgeous, bright, cheerful and the envy of her father’s friends. Her mother had been the Audrey Hepburn from Breakfast at Tiffany’s when her parents married, and she’d aged with equal grace and ease.

“Sweet Pea, you don’t understand these things. A chocolate shop is very romantic, and it sounds like a pleasant place to spend your days, but—”

“Dad, I’m not an idiot,” she snapped. “And stop calling me Sweet Pea.”

He looked ready to say something, then clamped his mouth shut. He leaned back into his chair.

“And quit putting up that offended act,” she added. “I’ve watched you negotiate business deals for as long as I can remember, so I know your tricks.”

“Money is a tool, Izzy,” he said. “It’s a tool to make more money. Without money—well, you don’t know what it’s like to be without money.” He smiled sadly. “Trust me when I tell you that this is a bad idea. I’ve been at this game longer than you’ve been alive, and a bachelor’s degree at Yale doesn’t make up for that.”

He’d successfully swiped her one argument off the table with that last comment. She was proud of her degree at Yale. She’d wanted to get into a top school so badly that she’d even found her own tutor to get her math grades up in high school. It had gotten messy—she’d fallen for her tutor, and she wasn’t exactly proud of how she’d handled it—but she wasn’t the idiot everyone seemed to take her for. She’d had plans, goals, and she’d worked hard to achieve them. She’d earned that degree, gotten top grades and studied hard. Her father had paid for it, of course, but she’d worked for every A she got.

Britney came into the room just then, and she slid onto the arm of the chair, Isabel’s father slipping his arm around her hips.

“Dinner’s ready,” Britney announced, rubbing her belly. She glanced around. “Is Jimmy here yet?”

Isabel shot her father an incredulous look. “Why did you invite the lawyer, Dad?”

“The lawyer.” He eyed her with exaggerated disappointment. “He’s got a name, you know.”

Was he really going to lecture her about recognizing the household workers as people with names and lives? She was no longer a self-centered teenager, and if James was coming to dinner, then that meant that he had some business planned.

“His name is James.” She emphasized his first name, irritated with Britney’s insistence on calling him Jimmy. “I’m well aware. The question is, why invite him to a family dinner?”

She had a suspicion of why her father would want James Hunter here this evening. She already knew that this dinner was about her chocolate shop, and her father was bringing in some reinforcements. He wasn’t about to let her spend her money without his input, that much was obvious. Had James been part of the ploy all along? Was he stringing her along, reporting back to her father?

“I didn’t invite him, but he’d be welcome to stay,” her father retorted. “He’s dropping off some papers for me, not that it’s any of your business.”

She didn’t believe that for a second. The doorbell rang and Britney smiled brilliantly.

“Well, speak of the devil. I’m sure that’s him.”

* * *

GEORGE BAXTER WAS the patriarch of a very wealthy family. He was a self-made man, and George had volleyed between making money and losing money for a decade before he finally started making more than he lost. Word around town was that George Baxter was hungry to prove himself to the old money of the county. He was now one of the ten most influential men in Montana, and he’d raised his daughter with the expectation that she’d marry well and never experience the hardship that he had. He was giving her a better life on a silver platter.

The big house had the look of old wealth, even though the Baxter dynasty was young, indeed. Mr. Baxter’s first wife had been the decorating master, and she’d had a delicate touch. The house was big, but not overly ostentatious. The furnishings were high quality and expensive, but homey, too. The grounds around the house were natural and reminded James of the perfect place for a tire swing and a red-checkered picnic blanket. The original Mrs. Baxter’s touch was the foundation of the place, and it couldn’t be erased. As James stepped inside, he smiled at the housekeeper who ushered him in. He’d always liked Mrs. Franklin. She was a constant, a regular rock, and under that stony facade, he always suspected there was a sense of humor, although he couldn’t quite prove it.

“Here are those documents, sir,” James said, passing an envelope to his employer. “It looks like I’m interrupting. Have a good evening, everyone.”

“Oh, stay for dinner,” Mr. Baxter said. “We have more than enough.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got work—”

“Come on through,” Britney called, beckoning him toward the dining room. “You’re just on time. I’ll be so disappointed if you don’t.”

“It smells amazing, Mrs. Baxter,” he replied with a smile. “Thanks for the invitation.”

His gaze landed on Isabel, and he found himself relieved to see her here. She interested him. Professionally, of course. That’s what he’d been telling himself all day. Her hair was up, pulled away from her face so that her large, dark eyes were dominant, meeting his with an expression of mild surprise. It was enough to make her scars melt away in the moment, and instead of facing a scarred former beauty, he was facing the beauty herself. She looked less than pleased with his arrival, however, and before he could say a word, she turned and walked into the dining room without a word.

“Never mind her,” Mr. Baxter said with a chuckle. “She’s just moody. She’ll get over it.”

Mr. Baxter sounded like a man making excuses for a teenager’s petulance, but Isabel was no teen, and he couldn’t help but wonder what family drama was about to unfold. Mr. Baxter never invited him to dinner just for the pleasure of his company, and this whole friendly scene wasn’t how things normally went. He was willing to bet that this whole display was for Isabel’s benefit.

“Not a problem, sir,” he replied with an uneasy smile, following the older man into the dining room.

The Baxters dined in relaxed style. A long, farmhouse-style table dominated the room, early evening sunlight streaming in through tall windows. The table was set without a cloth or place mats, gold-edged china placed directly onto the polished wood. Gleaming silverware sparkled on top of napkins. An extra place had already been set, and he got the distinct impression that this was more planned than he thought. Flowers spilled from vases, placed around the table in a way that looked almost meticulously casual—something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. A bowl of steaming potatoes sat in the center next to a large, clear jug of lemonade. Another dish of string beans reminded him that he was indeed hungry.

“Oh, you know us,” Britney said with a wave of her hand. “Sit wherever you like. We’re family, after all.”

Family, huh? James didn’t actually know them that well, at all, and he had that awkward feeling like anywhere he chose to sit would be wrong. James sat down at the nearest place setting, while Isabel and Britney both moved toward the same chair.

“Except for this one.” Britney laughed lightly. “I always sit here, don’t I, Georgie?”

“She always does,” Mr. Baxter agreed absently. “Never would sit at the foot of the table like a proper wife.” He laughed at his own little joke, then kissed Britney’s fingertips.

“Of course,” Isabel said, moving to the seat next to James. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been here.”

Here. Not home. James noted her wording.

“Oh, here comes the ham,” Mr. Baxter said.

The dining room doors swung open and Mrs. Franklin wheeled in a cart with a covered serving tray. The savory aroma of ham filled the room, and all eyes turned to Mrs. Franklin, who stood in her gray uniform, sweat on her brow.

After everyone was served, the meal began, and for several minutes, the only sound was silver against china. The food was amazing, and James had to admit that he didn’t often eat like this in Haggerston. He was used to the regular diners that the town had to offer, and his own cooking, of course. He wasn’t a bad cook, but he wasn’t too proud to admit that Mrs. Franklin’s cooking was a treat.

“You’ll have to bring us some of your chocolates, Isabel.” Britney broke the silence. “I’ve never tried them, and I’ve been craving chocolate something fierce with this pregnancy.”

“They’re good,” Mr. Baxter said, around a bite of food. “A nice hobby for her.”

Isabel smiled tightly.

“Speaking of business—” Mr. Baxter began.

“We weren’t speaking of business,” Isabel replied, her tone even, but a look of warning sparkling in her eyes.

“We’re always speaking of business,” the older man replied. “It’s like breathing. But have you done the research, Princess?”

“We’ve already discussed this,” she said, putting down her fork with a clink. “Not now.”

“Why not now?” Mr. Baxter looked around the table. “It’s family. What’s the problem?”

“James isn’t family,” she replied tersely.

She had a point. James sat back in his seat, watching the strained expressions around the table. He’d been in courtrooms that were more relaxed.

His employer shrugged. “He’s a lawyer. His job is to be discreet. I don’t know what you’re worried about.”

“Fine. Since in this family, all we talk about is business,” she replied icily, “what were you going to say?”

“I was going to ask if you know how many small businesses fail after starting up.” Mr. Baxter swirled a speared potato through a puddle of gravy and popped it into his mouth.

“You didn’t fail,” Isabel replied. “You’re a raving success, I’d say.”

“James?” Mr. Baxter turned his attention toward him, and James heaved a sigh. They were quickly coming to the reason for his invitation. Like Britney’s cooking, Mr. Baxter’s research was never done personally.

“Forty-seven percent,” James replied.

“And in the food industry?”

“More than that.” He was doing Isabel a favor by not mentioning the number.

“Chocolate is a niche market,” Mr. Baxter said, wiping his lips on a napkin. “It’s high cost, low margin. The real estate market has the highest rates of success.”

“I’m aware of that, Dad,” Isabel replied stiffly.

“Now, James, if you were to advise my little girl about starting up a business, what would you tell her?” Mr. Baxter asked.

Isabel turned her glittering eyes to him, daring him to speak. He could feel the repressed rage radiating from her, and he had to swallow twice before he spoke.

“I’d tell her to ask her father’s advice,” he replied cautiously.

“Aha! Smart man.” Mr. Baxter chuckled. “Pass the green beans, please, Britney.”

Britney passed the dish, and he helped himself to another serving.

“And you would tell her to ask my advice because I’ve made money, right? Because it takes a success to know how to be successful.”

“You’ve also lost money,” Isabel countered. “You went bankrupt when you and Mom first got married.”

Mr. Baxter’s eyes darkened, and he dropped the spoon back into the bowl with a clatter. Red crept up his neck and into his cheeks. James had never seen Mr. Baxter openly challenged before, and he found himself mildly concerned that the older man might pop a blood vessel.

“I paid for this home, for every stitch of clothing you ever wore, for all of your beauty contest coaching, for your vacations, your hobbies, your shiny Yale education...and you dare throw my failures in my face?” He sucked in a breath through his nose. “I’m your father, and you don’t have a penny except by what I’ve earned! Show some respect, young lady!”