Читать книгу Second Chance Girl - Susan Mallery, Susan Mallery - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

MATHIAS HAD GONE out of his way to make the rules clear to Sophie. She was a visiting pet—she was responsible for listening to him and doing as he said. As such, she would sleep in the living room and not in his bedroom. Only when it was time to go to bed, he realized that the living room was kind of a big, dark place and a long way from his room. As a way to show his willingness to compromise, he put her bed in the hallway, outside his bedroom door. Then he told her good-night and closed the door.

All went well for eight or ten seconds, then Sophie began to cry. At first the sounds were soft little yips of loneliness but they soon morphed into full-throated howls of pain and suffering, punctuated by whines of agony.

Mathias covered his head with a pillow, but that didn’t help. He told himself she would get over it and fall asleep. A full fifteen minutes later, he had to admit Sophie had some lungs on her. He crossed to the door and jerked it open. The sounds ceased as she wagged her tail at him, as if saying, “Hi. I knew you were in there. Can I come in?”

“No,” he said firmly. “Be quiet. Go to sleep.”

The tail wag slowed.

He closed the door again and didn’t make it back to the bed before the cries started up.

Ten minutes later he carried her bed into his room and dropped it in a corner. “Just for tonight,” he told her as sternly as he could. “I’m sure you miss your mom. I get that. But you have to learn to be independent, okay?”

Sophie sat in her bed, her tail wagging.

“Good night.”

He turned out the light.

One second turned into ten. Sophie was silent. He relaxed and closed his eyes, only to hear something scrambling onto the bench at the foot of his king-size mattress. That noise was immediately followed by Sophie scratching at the blanket before turning around and around and around, then flopping down halfway up and more on his side than her own. Before he could decide what he was supposed to do now, she sighed and began to snore.

Mathias stared at the ceiling and told himself it was only for a month. He could endure this. It wasn’t as if it was going to get worse.

* * *

IT GOT WORSE. He managed to sleep through the snoring, the snuffling and twitching as Sophie dreamed her doggie dreams. In the morning he let her out before feeding her. The smell of the canned food was bad enough, but then he had to mix it with dry, add exactly one quarter cup of warm (but not too hot water), then stir it up. His mother said to add a crumbled strip of crisp bacon to the mix, but Mathias decided that was going too far.

Sophie inhaled her breakfast before his Keurig had finished brewing a single cup of coffee, then she stared at him expectantly, as if wanting more.

“Look, you’ll need to talk to your mom,” he told her. “I measured everything. That’s your breakfast. There’s nothing else.”

The hope in her brown eyes died a doggie death and the tail wag slowed. Mathias did his best to ignore her and the guilt as he grabbed his coffee and made his way back to his bedroom.

Getting ready with Sophie around was different than getting ready alone. For one thing, she was always underfoot. For another, she sniffed everything and he would swear, as he stripped down for his shower, she was more than a little judgy.

“No one wants your opinion,” he said firmly as he stepped into the shower. “I mean it.”

Sophie tried to grab his towel when he got out, drank water from the toilet and when he let her out again, she pooped enough to make a moose proud, only Mathias was stuck cleaning it up. For the record, one poop bag was not enough.

Once that was done, he was able to finally sit down and enjoy the quiet of the morning. Millie stepped out of the tall trees. Sophie took one look at her and started barking.

He told her to stop. He told her louder to stop, then he locked her in his house even though he could still hear the frantic yips, growls and barks. He returned to his favorite patio chair, closed his eyes and imagined himself anywhere but here.

* * *

“I DOUBT THERE’S even going to be a scar,” Carol said happily Tuesday afternoon.

“Uh-huh. That’s great.”

Violet Lund did her best to pay attention to the conversation. Lunch with her sister was one of her favorite times of the week. Even though they lived in the same small town, they were both busy. They’d learned that if they didn’t make the effort to get something on the calendar, time tended to slip away from them.

She’d gotten up early to make chicken salad for sandwiches and had stopped by the bakery for the cookies Carol liked. But now that they were seated at the large table in Violet’s faux-loft apartment above her small store, she found her attention straying.

It wasn’t her fault, she told herself soothingly. She was being tempted beyond what a normal person could expect to withstand. Because there, on the counter, tantalizingly out of reach, was a package about the size of a shoe box.

The mix of various colorful postage stamps had told her it had been sent from England—from the Dowager Duchess of Somerbrooke, to be specific. She had an idea of what was inside, but couldn’t know the exact contents—not until she opened it. Oh, if only the mail lady had delivered it after her lunch with Carol, she wouldn’t be squirming like a four-year-old waiting on Santa.

“For her modeling career,” Carol added drily. “You know, with that large coffee manufacturer.”

Violet turned back to her sister and tried to put the pieces together. She was pretty sure they’d been talking about Bronwen and her injuries. Bronwen being a gazelle at the animal preserve her sister ran...or managed...or whatever you called the job of person in charge. Animal keeper?

And not important, she told herself. They’d been talking about Bronwen, so how on earth had they gotten to a modeling career and who was—

The pieces fell into place. Violet sighed.

“Sorry. I was listening.” Um, perhaps that wasn’t her best tack. “I mean I wanted to listen. I do care about your work.”

“I can tell.” Carol sounded more amused than upset. “If it makes you feel any better, your buttons are about as interesting to me as my gazelle and her injuries are to you.”

Violet wanted to protest. Bronwen was great and all but still just a gazelle. While the buttons were...magical. They came from all over the world. A lot were junk and of little use to her, but every now and then there were actual treasures. The rare, the perfect, the unexpected.

Once a lady in India had sent her eight perfectly matched enamel and onyx buttons edged in gold. Another time she’d received carved wooden buttons that dated back to the fifteen hundreds. Buttons were interesting and dynamic and a surprisingly excellent source of income. Compared to that, all a gazelle could do was eat, sleep and walk around. Still, Carol loved all her animals and Violet loved her sister.

“I am sorry that Bronwen was hurt and I’m happy she’s pursuing her modeling career. She always wanted that.”

Carol’s brown eyes twinkled with amusement. “Shall I send her over to you for tips?”

Violet did her best to keep smiling. Her sister wasn’t being unkind. Carol had no way of knowing that talking about that part of her past was painful—mostly because Violet always lied about it. Yes, she’d been a model for all of five seconds back when she’d been eighteen. She’d been famous and then it had all gone away. She told herself she was better for the experience and, on her good days, she believed it.

“My biggest advice would be for Bronwen to cut down on the snacks. The camera really does add ten pounds.”

Carol laughed. “She’ll be crushed. Maybe I should put my foot down and tell her she’s going to have to grow up a little more before I’ll let her out into the world.”

“Probably best for both of you.”

Her sister nodded at the package. “Go ahead. You know you want to see what that English lady sent you.”

“That English lady? Nana Winifred is the dowager duchess and grandmother to the current Duke of Somerbrooke.”

“You call her Nana Winifred. It’s hard to be impressed.”

“She adores me. I’m like family and she sends me buttons.” Violet thought about saying she was happy to wait until after their lunch was finished, but Carol would know she was lying.

She grabbed the package and ripped off the protective paper before slitting the tape holding the top on the box. She took a deep breath, then lifted the lid and gazed inside.

Nana Winifred did not disappoint. Nestled in a cocoon of tissue paper were over a half dozen small plastic bags. Each contained a set of buttons.

The first one Violet picked up held seven green buttons about an inch in diameter. She pulled a pair of white cotton gloves out of a drawer and put them on. Only then did she pour the buttons onto her palm.

They were carved to look like flowers. Or maybe lotus blossoms, she thought, willing herself to keep calm. She would have to do some research, but her first, best guess was these were jade. Hand-carved jade. Chinese for sure and maybe two or three hundred years old.

“Those are nice,” Carol said, her tone doubtful.

“They’re exquisite. Look at the detail. It was all done by hand.” Her heart fluttered. “I’m so excited to see the rest of what’s in there.”

She returned the buttons to the protective bag, then took off her gloves. “Thank you for letting me get a peek at what she sent. I can wait on the rest.”

Her sister shook her head. “You’re so weird. They’re just buttons.”

“I know. Isn’t it great?”

A half hour later Carol left to go back to work. Violet cleaned the kitchen before heading down to her shop. She turned the sign to Open and unlocked the front door. Confident she wasn’t going to be seeing any customers for the next couple of hours—most of her clients made appointments first—she spread a large cloth over the counter, then opened the package again and began to sort through the buttons.

There were the jade ones she’d studied earlier, and two sets done in mother-of-pearl. She studied a set of twelve brass buttons—obviously military and a couple of centuries old. She knew at least two New York designers who would jump at the chance to buy them.

Her front door opened and a tall, dark-blond-haired man with piercing blue eyes stalked into her shop. He looked stern. No, not stern, furious. Under other circumstances, she would have been completely intimidated—only she couldn’t be. Not when she recognized the steady gaze, the firm mouth and the strong jaw.

Ulrich, Duke of Somerbrooke, might be twelve years older and even better looking—if that was possible—but everything else was just as she remembered.

In less than a heartbeat, she was that gawky fourteen-year-old again, visiting England with her mother. Violet had been beyond awkward, all long limbs and frizzy hair, with acne and braces. The phrase unfortunate didn’t begin to describe her hideous self.

Through a family friend, she and her mother had been invited to a summer party by the dowager duchess and there Violet had fallen madly and passionately in love with the young duke-to-be, as she’d thought of him then.

He’d been all of eighteen and charming. His friends had rolled their eyes when they’d seen her, but not Ulrich. He’d been gracious and lovely and when he’d asked her to dance, she’d thought she was going to die. Right there, in front of the dowager duchess and everyone. Only she hadn’t died. She’d danced and he’d chatted and she’d listened, even as her heart had been swept away.

Violet couldn’t remember if he’d done all the talking or if she’d managed to cough out a word or two. What she did know for sure was that at the end, he’d leaned close, kissed her cheek and whispered, “You’re going to be a beauty, Violet. Give it some time. You’ll get there.”

The kind promise had sustained her through six more months of ugly. Then the braces had come off and her skin had cleared up and she’d learned how to tame her hair into gorgeous curls. Three years later one of the most famous photographers in the world had discovered her and claimed her as his muse. What followed had been a disaster, but none of that was Ulrich’s fault. He’d promised her she would get there and she had. And he’d danced with her and kissed her cheek. Seriously, what more could her fourteen-year-old self have asked for?

Now she stared at the man he’d become and wondered what on earth he was doing in Happily Inc. In her store.

“Ulrich! I can’t believe it. Did Nana Winifred send you? I just got a package from her and she never said—”

“Madam, I must ask you not to refer to my grandmother with such familiarity. I don’t know what kind of scheme you’ve hatched to defraud her, but be aware that I’m here to make sure it all comes to an end. I prefer to handle this privately but I’ll have no compunction about involving the authorities. I have friends in the FBI, as well as with the NSA, and I will not hesitate to contact them.”

His tone was so cold and harsh, she almost didn’t comprehend his words. When the meaning began to sink in, she wasn’t sure if she should laugh, cry or throw something at him.

Regardless, the buttons came first. Violet carefully returned them to their plastic bags, then took off her gloves and looked at the hostile man in front of her. A man who had once danced with her and brightened her entire summer.

“I liked you better when you were the Marquess of I-can’t-remember-what,” she grumbled. “Now I have to be sorry I liked you at all. What on earth are you talking about?”

His icy stare cut through her. “Madam, I do not appreciate you presuming an acquaintance when none exists.”

“Stop with the madam crap. If you’re trying to sound like an extra from Pride and Prejudice, it’s working. Although there is the whole stick up the butt element to it. As for—” she made air quotes “—presuming an acquaintance, we’ve met. Twelve years ago, at your house. I was fourteen and had frizzy red hair and braces. You danced with me and were actually really nice.” She frowned. “Something you seem to have outgrown. What on earth are you doing here and why are you threatening me with the police?”

“You are stealing from my grandmother.”

His icy tone was nearly as startling as the words themselves. “Stealing what?”

“Household goods, paintings, objets d’art, silver. I will have to do some research, but I would guess their collective value has placed you in felony territory. You don’t seem to be the type of woman who would thrive in prison.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. She told herself not to be afraid of him or his accusation, but that didn’t stop the shaking that claimed her body.

“I haven’t stolen from anyone,” she said, willing herself to sound as confident and stern as he did. “You’re a crazy man who’s made a huge mistake.”

He pointed at the box sitting on the counter. “I recognize my grandmother’s handwriting. You can’t deny she sent you something. Something that belongs to Battenberg Park.”

He sounded so certain, she nearly doubted herself. Nearly. Violet shifted the box so he could see the contents she’d placed on the protective cloth.

“You’re right,” she said slowly and carefully. “She sent me buttons that she found and purchased at flea markets and estate sales.” She pulled a sheet of paper from the bottom of the box and unfolded it. “This would be the receipt because I pay for the buttons before she sends them to me.”

She handed Ulrich the paper. “That’s what I do. My business here is only a small part of my entire company. I buy and sell buttons from all over the world. I have a network of women—most of them elderly—who find unusual antique buttons. They buy them and bill me. I pay for the buttons and the postage and the ladies send them to me. Your grandmother helped me set up my business several years ago.”

He scanned the receipt, then tossed it on the counter. “You’re not making any sense. No one can make a living selling buttons.”

“Use a dismissive tone all you want. I’ll sell these for a hundred dollars each.” She shook the bag of jade buttons. “The military ones will go for nearly forty dollars. That’s per button, you pompous jerk. Whether or not you believe me about my business, I have a receipt. I also have an entire spreadsheet of transactions between me and your grandmother. So you go ahead and call the FBI or anyone else you want. You’re wrong about me and what I do. You’ve insulted me and totally destroyed a perfectly great memory. I’m only sorry I enjoyed our dance as much as I did.”

She pointed to the door. “As you’re leaving, you ought to think about how disappointed your grandmother is going to be in your behavior. Now get out!”

Violet was pretty proud of herself for standing her ground—mostly because her legs were really shaking. She knew she was in the right, but still, to be accused like that. It was horrible.

The Duke of Somerbrooke hesitated for only a second before turning and walking out. The moment the door closed, Violet sank onto the small stool she kept behind the counter and told herself to keep breathing. That eventually her heart rate would return to normal and she wouldn’t feel so sick to her stomach.

After a couple of minutes, she stored the dowager’s buttons in the walk-in safe that had come with the store. Only then did she sink onto the floor and wrap her arms around herself as she gave in to the shaking and the tears that followed.

* * *

THE HAPPILY INC Landfill and Recycling Center was a surprisingly clean and happy place. Brothers Ed and Ted Lund had bought the business from the city nearly a decade ago and had transformed it from a smelly, overused disaster into a bustling center of commerce and innovation.

While Ed had always been interested in animal welfare—particularly when it came to animals in the wild, Ted was more of a trash guy. He’d studied waste management in college and had worked for waste management companies all around the world. He believed in every form of reusing, recycling, re-everything.

When a distant relative had left the brothers a shockingly large inheritance, they’d decided to combine their two passions into a single enterprise. Happily Inc was delighted with their proposal and had thrown in the surrounding hundred acres as a bonus. Within two years, Ed had transported massive trees from Africa, along with bushes and grasses, transforming the rolling landscape from scrub to the savanna. Drought resistant in their native land, the new plants and trees required very little from Ed. A year later, the first animals arrived.

For his part, Ted had made equally unexpected changes. Recycling was expanded from average to cutting edge. He partnered with the state’s universities and colleges, offering practical, hands-on work for students of waste management and ecology. No idea was too crazy to be considered. The state’s largest prison in San Bernardino also joined Ted and the colleges and developed a work-study program where inmates could sort through the recycling and earn credits. Those not interested in study could work in the reclamation center where used or broken items were refurbished and sold in the recycling store on-site.

In less than five years Happily Inc had become a recycling leader in the nation. Other cities came to study what worked and why. The store alone had become a huge moneymaker and Ted was talking with several organizations who supported the homeless to see if there was a way to get them involved, as well.

Carol had bought a perfectly good desk at the store. For an extra five dollars, she was able to have it painted candy-apple red—something that made her happy every time she saw it in her small study. As she parked by the dump’s main offices late Tuesday afternoon, she thought that while her family was close and loving, they were a bit...odd. No doubt one of the reasons her parents had divorced. Her mom was simply too normal. After all these years, Samantha Lund still lived in New York City and practiced law. Carol and Violet made it a point to visit her at least once a year and kept in touch via phone calls and texts. Samantha had never visited Happily Inc. If she ever saw the dump, she would be appalled.

The thought of her designer-wearing mother walking on the savanna made Carol smile. It also reminded her she should call in the next few days.

Carol walked into the low, one-story building and waved at the receptionist.

“They’re in back,” Nellie told her. “Giggling over something.”

Carol grinned. She doubted her dad and uncle were actually giggling but they could be laughing or chuckling or lobbing crushed aluminum cans into a recycling bin.

She paused at the doorway to their shared office and saw the two men were, in fact, working. Her dad, a tall man with red hair and brown eyes, studied his computer screen intently. Ted, a near carbon-copy of Ed, was on the phone, gesturing as he spoke. Ted saw her first. He waved her in and winked. Her dad looked up and smiled.

“How’s my best girl?” he asked as he rose and held out his arms. Carol rushed toward him and hugged him back.

For as long as she could remember, her dad had been there for her. He’d loved her and supported her, just as he had Violet. To him they were both his best girl.

Ted hung up and joined them. She received another bear hug from him. Unlike his brother, Ted had never married. He always said that Carol and Violet were his girls, too. They were, in the brothers’ eyes, beautiful and special.

Carol still remembered the shock of her first day of school when she’d foolishly told everyone that she was special. The other children had quickly disabused her of the notion. When she’d said they were wrong, one of the boys had punched her in the face, bloodying her nose. They’d both been sent home in tears.

For nearly three years Carol had fought against the truth her classmates had been determined she see. When her parents split up and her world got scary, she’d been forced to accept that maybe special was too strong a word. Maybe she was just like everyone else. On her worst days, she feared she was actually less. And that truth had defined the rest of her life.

“We’re starting a classic computer division,” Ted told her as they sat down. Carol took the chair between the two desks where she could see them both. “Old computers are hot right now. The techie folks love them. Some we’re fixing up and some we’re selling for parts. I’m hoping we can expand the business in that direction so we can stop off-loading our old electronics to third world countries.”

Her dad shook his head and sighed. Carol held in a smile. Once Ted got going on exporting used electronics, he was hard to stop.

“Did you want to tell Carol why we asked her to stop by?” her father asked. “Or should I?”

Ted blinked, as if he’d forgotten the point of her visit. “What? Oh, right. You do it.”

Her father leaned toward her. “Your uncle and I have a donation for Millie’s fund.” He opened his desk drawer and handed her a check.

Shortly after Millie had arrived, Carol had realized the sweet giraffe was lonely and needed a herd. The cost to bring three or four female giraffes to Happily Inc, including transportation, additions to the barn and care and feeding for a year would be nearly half a million dollars. Way more than she had in loose change in her sofa cushions. She had nearly seventy-five thousand dollars from her fund-raising efforts. Only four hundred and twenty-five thousand to go.

“Thank you,” she said before she glanced at the amount, then nearly fell off her chair when she saw the check was for fifty thousand dollars. “Oh my God! How did you do this? Are you sure? Are you not going to eat for the rest of your lives?”

Ted grinned at her. “We’ll be eating, I promise. Business has been good. We have a couple of new contracts with other cities to handle their recycling. Your dad and I aren’t giving up anything, Carol. We want to help. We believe in Millie and we believe in you.”

She had to blink back unexpected tears. “Thank you,” she murmured before scrambling to her feet and racing over to hug them both. “I can’t believe it. This is huge!”

“You’re a good girl,” her father told her, his voice gruff. “We’re proud of you and what you’ve done with the animals here. Millie needs a herd. This is our way of getting you and her closer to that.”

“Thank you so much. I’m working on other fund-raising plans and I’m talking to a few people about holding a bake sale over the holidays.”

The brothers exchanged a glance as if thinking that was nowhere near enough. She knew that, too, but didn’t have any other ideas. She’d studied zoo management and animal care in college, not fund-raising. She’d interned at zoos, not nonprofits, which left her qualified for her job but with no clue as to how to raise enough to get Millie her herd.

“I’ll look online,” she told them. “I’m inspired to come up with better ideas.”