Читать книгу Mr. Elliott Finds A Family - Susan Floyd - Страница 9

BETH ANN CLASPED the small body next to hers, trying to calm the beating of her own heart. She knew the panic was caused by the image of Christian holding the squalling Bernie. In two months, Bernie’s adoption would be final, but he didn’t know that and he wasn’t going to know that. She willed her heart to stop pounding. She was getting upset about nothing. There was nothing in his behavior that indicated he even knew Bernie was Caroline’s. Beth Ann hugged Bernie tighter until the toddler protested with a wiggle and another indignant yelp. Beth Ann relaxed her hold and then said in an overly bright tone, “Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

Christian continued to stare at Bernie. And then he shook his head, “No, no thank you.” After a pause, he asked, “How’s, uh, Iris?”

“Grans is fine. I’ve given her a sedative, which puts her right to sleep. She’s had a busy day. Been up since four.” Beth Ann glanced at the clock, surprised it was only nine. “This is about the time she takes a nap.”

“Iris is your, er?”

“Have a seat,” she offered while Bernie clung to her neck. Beth Ann winced and shifted Bernie’s grip to her shirt. With one hand, she poured herself a cup of coffee, carrying it well away from Bernie.

She watched as Christian looked around and then sat, but only after meticulously picking an Oatie-O off the seat.

Beth Ann smiled nervously, putting her hand out to take the piece of cereal from him, and apologized. “Sorry. Professional hazard. They’re probably stuck to the bottom of your shoe as well.”

To his credit, he didn’t look, but merely grazed the hollow of her palm with his fingertips as he deposited the Oatie-O in her hand, which she tossed away before settling herself across the kitchen table from him. She pushed the coffee out of Bernie’s reach, then leaned over to grab Fluff and put him in her daughter’s hands.

“You sure I can’t get you any?”

Christian shook his head.

Self-consciously, she scooped four heaping teaspoons of sugar into her mug along with a generous splash of milk, left over from Bernie’s cereal. She caught him staring and grimaced. “I use it for the drug it is. I like the smell but hate the taste.” After a minute, she added, “Iris is Carrie’s grandmother.”

His elegantly arched eyebrow raised. “Caroline’s grandmother? Not yours?”

Beth Ann shook her head and looked outside with a small laugh. Iris was Carrie’s grandmother, Bernie was Carrie’s daughter and here she was sitting in her kitchen talking to Carrie’s husband, suddenly feeling responsible for all three of them.

“No, not mine,” she said softly. “We were half sisters. We had the same mother, different fathers. Iris is Carrie’s father’s mother.” Smiling, she asked, “So, what can we do for you?” Beth Ann tried to make her voice neutral, but it came out more chirpy than she intended. “It must be important if you couldn’t talk about it over the phone.” She tightened her hold on Bernie.

“Do you know what DirectTech is?” he finally asked, his tone slightly patronizing.

“It’s a software company,” Beth Ann replied. Her head was beginning to pound. She took a sip of coffee, and Bernie wriggled to get down. Beth Ann let her slip to the floor, where she immediately clambered to get up again.

“A software company we acquired eight years ago—”

“We?”

“My family’s business.”

Beth Ann looked at him warily and asked, “What exactly is your family’s business?”

“We acquire things.”

“Venture capitalists?”

He shrugged. “If you want to call it that. We invest in companies—or buy them—build them up, then sell them when the timing’s right.”

“Do you keep anything?”

“Some things. We have a couple of resort hotels that we’ve held for two generations.”

“Oh.” Beth Ann glanced down, suddenly noticing how grubby and rough her hands looked. Just yesterday she had tried a new painting technique she’d read about in Watercolor magazine and hadn’t been able to get the stains out from under her fingernails. She pushed her hands under the table and surveyed the kitchen, noticing its shabby appearance, and was thankful she had taken yesterday afternoon to clean the house from top to bottom. At least Bernie’s fingerprints weren’t prominently displayed on the door of the faded avocado-green refrigerator. She then looked up at Christian completely at a loss for something else to say.

The silence stretched between them. Christian stared at the two people across the table from him. Beth Ann stirred her coffee, tasted it and added another two scoops of sugar. She gave him a half smile before her gaze danced away. She kissed the top of Bernie’s unruly curls and then took another sip. He felt slightly uncomfortable, as if he were the cause of her silence. What was he supposed to do but tell her the truth? Why suddenly, sitting in this kitchen, did he feel a deep sense of embarrassment about what his family owned? His eyes followed her gaze, as she now stared at an old china cabinet stuffed full of paper, cards and envelopes. Lots and lots of mail. Much of it unopened, he realized.

He cleared his throat. “I was asking whether or not you were familiar with DirectTech.”

“Oh, yes.” She turned attentively toward him.

“It’s worth quite a bit these days.”

“And tomorrow it could be worth nothing,” Beth Ann replied.

Christian smiled and said politely, “That’s possible, but not likely. We don’t generally acquire duds.”

“So what does this have to do with me?”

He paused, wondering if she ever read her mail. He glanced back over to the cabinet. Apparently not. Then he said, “I’d like that coffee now.”

Beth Ann put Bernie down and headed to the coffeepot. Bernie followed, frowning at him as she went. He gave her a tentative smile. She scowled.

Beth Ann handed him a mug of coffee and then pushed the sugar in his direction. She gestured to the old refrigerator. “There’s milk in the fridge.”

Christian nodded his thanks and said, “I take it black.”

“After you drink that, you might want to reconsider,” she advised and sat down. She looked impatiently at the clock.

“Expecting someone?” he inquired.

“What?” Beth Ann asked, her cheeks flushing.

“You keep looking at the clock.”

Beth Ann turned away guiltily. She was wishing with all the power in her that Glenn would sprout wings and appear on her doorstep. Then she shook herself. Why couldn’t she face Carrie’s husband by herself? Why did she need reinforcements? He seemed to be a perfectly reasonable man. She should just let him say his piece. After all, he had to be in Napa for an important meeting. She perked up at the idea. Wouldn’t Glenn be impressed if she handled this on her own?

“I do have a friend coming,” Beth Ann admitted cautiously. “But you were telling me about DirectTech.”

“It’s hers.”

The words were spoken so softly Beth Ann didn’t think she heard him correctly. Beth Ann noticed him staring intently at Bernie who scowled back at him. As Bernie tried to climb onto her lap, her sharp elbows dug into Beth Ann’s thigh. “Ow. Uh, excuse me?” Beth Ann asked as she helped Bernie up.

“It’s hers.” He jerked his head toward Bernie.

“Bern’s?” She sucked in a deep breath. “What do you mean DirectTech is Bernie’s? You must mean you’ve brought Bernie the software. Well, thank you very much.” She flashed what she hoped was a friendly smile. “We certainly appreciate it and we’ll save it for when she’s keyboard literate.”

“Not the software,” he said, his voice abrupt. He took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “The company. It’s hers.”

“No.”

“Well, yes. Don’t you read your mail?”

“Yes, I read my mail.”

“Didn’t you get something from my attorney for Bernadette?”

Beth Ann searched her memory, and then remembered the fat envelope. “Bernie got something from a lawyer,” Beth Ann corrected him, her face growing hot from his scrutiny. “But I thought it was a hoax. Bernie’s much too young to receive mail. I tossed it.” She was lying. It was actually in a safe pile along with Bernie’s legal papers. She’d planned to have the lawyer handling Bernie’s adoption look over the document the next time she saw her.

“Do you always toss documents worth several million dollars?”

“Routinely,” Beth Ann said blithely, wondering if there was a way to buy more time. She didn’t need his involvement right now. She changed the subject and asked, “So why are you here? I’m sure it isn’t just to remind me to read my mail.”

“Call it idle curiosity,” he replied, his voice almost amused.

“About?”

“About Caroline’s other life.”

Other life. Beth Ann swallowed hard and cursed Carrie for putting her in such a position. Bernie had inherited a fortune. She glanced out the window surprised to see the old oak tree. The fog must have lifted.

When was it, exactly, that her life had become so complicated?

In college, free and single, working on her Masters of Fine Arts, all she’d had to worry about was the soft blur of colors and trying to control, cajole really, the wet medium to fit the impressions in her head. Too much wet and mold grew on the paper. Too little, not enough blur. She spent hours, chasing the elusive values of light that plagued her even in her sleep, especially as she tried to infuse some spark of life into a painting already long dead, flat and mottled from her vain attempts at repair. There was a time, just before a depressed and pregnant Carrie arrived, when Beth Ann had had the promise of a lucrative career in art.

But not today.

The offers had waned because first she couldn’t deliver her paintings on time and later because there was nothing new even to deliver. Between Bernie and Iris, she just couldn’t maintain the momentum she needed to paint, to finish what she had already started.

Beth Ann had gone from painting six hours a day to six hours a week to six hours a month. And then she’d stopped painting altogether when Bernie came down with the croup and was in the hospital for five days. Beth Ann had frantically tried to call Carrie, but she was nowhere to be found. The hospital bills wiped out both her and Iris’s savings and Beth Ann had been forced to take out a mortgage on Iris’s long-paid-for house to pay the balance of the bill and to get herself and Bernie insurance. At least, Iris had Medicare. Between Iris’s social security and university pension, the residuals still dribbling in from Beth Ann’s sporadic sales and the drawing and painting classes she taught for the city’s parks and recreation program, they were doing okay. Not great, but okay. Okay enough that Beth Ann could stay home most of the time.

Bernie wriggled impatiently on her lap. Beth Ann stared at the man sitting across from her and took another sip of coffee. Finally, she said, “What do you mean by Carrie’s other life?”

When Bernie squirmed more and slid to the ground, Beth Ann used the opportunity to put some distance between herself and the piercing gray stare. She went to the ancient dryer tucked in the corner of the kitchen and rifled through the clean laundry, looking for clothes for Bernie. Half a kitchen away, she could now safely ask, “Why do you want to know about Carrie’s other life? Don’t you think that it’s a little late now?”

The second question slipped out before she could stop it.

She was surprised at how bitter she sounded and she suppressed a feeling of guilt, ashamed she’d allowed her anger to show. She pulled out a small T-shirt and frowned at the hole under the sleeve and the brown splotch she couldn’t get out. She looked for something newer and matching and swallowed hard when she realized she had neither. Bernie’s clothes were mostly hand-me-downs supplied by Elena Marquez, the dairy farmer’s wife. With a quiet sigh, she quickly assembled a small outfit for Bernie, a faded green monster-truck T-shirt and a pair of loose blue toddler sweats, pants that Bernie could easily pull on and off. She returned to the kitchen table, avoiding the gaze of the almost oppressively silent man sitting there. She focused her attention on the little girl, well aware that his silver eyes were fixed on Bernie’s faded blue striped socks and palm-size tennis shoes.

“Nana?” Bernie asked as Beth Ann stripped off the toddler’s pajamas, tugging the top over her head. She pulled on Bernie’s little T-shirt, glancing up and flushing when she met Christian’s pale eyes, withdrawn and shuttered close. She felt a chill run down her spine. How could Carrie have ever married a man whose humorless expression bored into a person, as if he was dissecting every part of her?

“Nana’s napping now,” Beth Ann replied making her voice as even as she could. “Give me your arms.” Bernie’s arms came up immediately.

She finally addressed Christian. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“She looks like a boy,” Christian said suddenly.

Beth Ann’s back stiffened.

“Dressed like that, I mean,” he added.

“My friend has three boys and the clothes were perfectly good,” Beth Ann replied, not able to control the defensiveness in her voice.

Christian stayed quiet, but his eyes followed her every move.

Beth Ann caught Bernie between her legs. “Give me a foot,” she instructed and Bernie put her foot into the pant leg. “Other foot.”

“I pull up!” Bernie insisted.

“Yes, you pull up your pants, just like you do after you go poop,” Beth Ann agreed and watched Bernie’s chubby hands fight for coordination as she grasped the elastic and tugged with such toddler might that the waist ended up at her armpits. Beth Ann fixed them, pulling out Bernie’s self-inflicted wedgie, paying more attention to the smaller details of Bernie’s attire than she normally would. With a small pat on Bernie’s behind, Beth Ann opened up the baby gate and sent her off to get her hairbrush.

Christian forced himself to relax, mentally surveying the layout of the small bungalow. The house went back a lot further than he thought, the hall cutting the house in half lengthwise. Bernie’s room was near the back—he could hear the direction of her footsteps. The grandmother was directly across the hall from the kitchen. So by elimination, that made Beth Ann’s room the one up front across from the living room. Which had been Caroline’s room?

After he and Caroline had gotten married, he’d wanted to find a place of their own, but Caroline had quickly fallen in love with Bella Grande along with the well-trained staff. Declaring he was absolutely crazy to want to live anywhere else, she’d halfheartedly toured the homes he’d arranged for her to see, then convinced him that his parents’ estate was the best place for them to settle. Perhaps an early sign that their marriage was disintegrating.

Now, he caught a small glimpse of the reason behind Caroline’s driving need to reside at Bella Grande. She denied her ordinary beginnings and used him to reinvent herself to the point of obliterating her family, her sister, her grandmother. First it was the mansion, then it was the cruises. When two-week holidays had turned into three-month or five-month journeys, he’d known Caroline had stumbled upon a life-style.

When she’d return home, she’d always declare she wasn’t going to travel again, that she was sick of the crowd, of the food. But after about three weeks, he saw the brochures, found the tickets on her dresser, felt her restlessness. He’d responded by working harder, ridding himself of the fanciful notions of children gleefully screaming on the vast lawns of his parents’ estate, adjusting to the fact that when Caroline was in town, her cruising friends would slobber over him because of his family’s name.

It had been almost a relief when Caroline would call to say she was extending the cruise of the hour for another few weeks. In the seven years they were married, Caroline had traveled for probably five of them, if all the months were strung together. It had happened so subtly that even if Christian had wanted to, there was no way to protest. When he finally did, she’d spoken so bitterly he’d had to force himself to walk away.

Their arguments weren’t about money.

He had enough money for God knew how many trips. Even with all her excesses, Caroline had never made a dent in his personal fortune, much less the vaster family one. No, she’d sharply pointed to several of his flaws—his failure to engage in verbal combat, his grueling, self-imposed work schedule, his lack of affection, his inability to fill the bottomless pool of adoration Christian perceived she needed in order to maintain her self-esteem.

His jaw tightened and he pushed away the thoughts that caused his stomach to churn. He didn’t want these feelings. He hadn’t wanted to come here. But Mrs. Murphy, his battle-ax of a personal assistant, more surrogate mother than secretary, had insisted. Told him to get the signatures once and for all so he could put Caroline to rest. Meanwhile, she would change the locks on the entire building and shut down his private elevator to ensure that he would continue to travel north to Napa Valley to take his physician’s prescribed three-month vacation—far, far away from work.

Mrs. Murphy knew leaving the office wasn’t easy for him. She knew how much he resisted the endless days filled with nothing but the guilt that haunted him. For too long, work had been his one constant, the only element that could seal up the cracks left by Caroline’s death. Even though they hadn’t passionately loved each other at the end, Caroline had been his wife and her death had affected him much more than he would have ever anticipated.

Many times he wanted to believe that she was just away on an extended cruise. But the image of Caroline’s body, crushed in her beautiful, brassy-red convertible was permanently etched in his mind. He carried it with him every day, saw it during his sleepless nights. Thank God Mrs. Murphy had stepped in during the crisis and had steered the financial conglomerate through competitive waters. Max—who was paid more and was supposedly his right-hand man—had been practically useless during the turbulent days that followed Caroline’s death.

Weary, ready to be on the road, away from this small bungalow, away from the woman who looked at him so suspiciously, Christian forced himself to focus on his main objective. Once he had her signature, he would deal with the feelings, the long days ahead of him.

He repeated, “DirectTech, the company, is Bernadette’s and we need you to sign some paperwork. I’ve got copies in the car.”

Beth Ann sat at the table, her face averted as she began to tame Bernie’s wild curls with firm strokes. He watched her spritz Bernie’s hair with some sweet smelling detangler and then pull half of it into a pigtail. Eventually, she looked up and asked cautiously, “Why is it hers?”

“DirectTech was Caroline’s. She willed it to Bernadette. You wouldn’t know why, would you?” When he received no other answer than a brief shake of Beth Ann’s head, Christian continued, “My parents gave the company to her as a wedding present. They thought it would be nice if she had an income of her own.” He pointed at the toddler whose head bobbed as her mother fastened the other pigtail securely. “She’s going to be guaranteed an income for life.”

“And?” Beth Ann’s eyes were wary.

“And you were named as the trustee.” He gave her a hard stare, that she deflected by looking away. She was very good at not making eye contact.

“Oh, that’s easy. I won’t sign,” Beth Ann said, her voice almost relieved, as she stood. “If that’s all you need to know, I guess you can leave now.” She started to walk to the front door. Christian stayed solidly seated, ignoring her obvious signal that he should make his exit. She couldn’t physically oust him, could she?

“I’d like to have another cup of coffee,” he said politely, draining what was left, and holding out his mug. It was awful, but it would keep him here until he had what he wanted.

Beth Ann’s face turned red and she said tightly, “I’d rather you left. I have a friend coming soon.”

“Poop!” Bernie said urgently, tugging at the seat of her sweats, frozen where she stood.

“Poop? You’re kidding!” Beth Ann yelped with wide eyes and scuttled the toddler across the kitchen floor. “Let’s go, Bernie-Bern-Bern. Let’s go give the poop to Mrs. Potty.”

Christian got up and poured some more coffee. Beth Ann looked up and frowned silently as she watched his actions, her hands pulling Bernie’s sweats down around her knees and releasing the tape on her diaper. He met her brown gaze directly and she glanced away.

“Potty training stops for nothing,” she commented abstractly.

He couldn’t help but be mildly interested in what they were doing, the communion between mother and daughter clearly apparent as she helped Bernie onto the low potty.

Then they all waited.

The combination of Beth Ann’s wry smile and her nurturing care of the toddler stirred feelings he’d buried away in a very deep part of his soul. This small part of him secretly wished he and Caroline had shared such moments. Maybe then they wouldn’t have drifted so far apart. As an envious outsider, he watched Beth Ann gently rub Bernie’s back. If he squinted hard enough he could imagine the woman was Caroline not her sister. In his fantasy, he wouldn’t be a stranger in such a loving household, but an integral part of it.

The image placed before him—Beth Ann talking reassuringly to Bernie, her little face scrunched as she bore down—was an intimate snapshot reserved for family. Only family cared enough to celebrate the triumphs of proper waste disposal. He’d never seen his mother look at him so lovingly and although he couldn’t remember the event, he had no doubt she wasn’t even remotely involved with his toilet training. He wondered if she had even changed a diaper.

“I pooped!” Bernie announced loudly, as she stood and looked into Mrs. Potty, while Beth Ann cleaned her off with a wet wipe.

Beth Ann nodded with a beaming smile that took his breath away. It was the smile of an angel, sending deep dimples into her cheeks, crinkles around her eyes. Even the light dusting of freckles across her nose glowed. Christian couldn’t help but be jealous of the attention and admiration that Bernie was getting. He wondered why Beth Ann’s smile seemed to have the effect of a low-grade volt of electricity, stimulating some distant physical impulses that he’d assumed had died long before Caroline.

“Yes, you certainly did,” her voice deepened with affection. “You pooped in Mrs. Potty and now what do we have to do?”

Bernie looked at her, her face pensive with concentration.

“Remember,” Beth Ann said, her voice prompting. “We wash our hands. Wash our hands, wash our hands, wash our hands.”

“Wash our hands, wash our hands,” Bernie sang. She scrambled to the kitchen sink, up onto a chair and pushed her hands under the faucet. “Soap!” she commanded.

“Soap, just a little.” Beth Ann handed her a half-used bar of hotel soap. “Scrub, scrub, scrub.”

“Scub, scub, scub.”

After Bernie finished rinsing, the window was cracked slightly to ventilate the room, and the evidence of her latest achievement was properly flushed away. Then Bernie ventured to him, staring up at him with great blue eyes, the exact same color as Caroline’s, fringed with the darkest, longest eyelashes he had ever seen. She placed a chubby, still damp hand on his thigh, leaned forward and informed him, “I pooped in Mrs. Potty.”

Christian had never been so touched in all his years. He could see her earnestness and smell the strong soap that mingled with her baby scent. Her plump cheeks just invited a touch or a pinch. What did one say to capture the significance of the occasion?

“Sweetie,” Beth Ann interrupted, steering Bernie away from him. “I think he knows.”

Christian wasn’t sure he liked Beth Ann’s not-so-subtle attempts to keep distance between himself and the toddler.

“But poop!” Bernie was obviously proud of her accomplishment. She then tilted her head and batted her eyelashes at Beth Ann. “Garden? Sun says hello.”

Beth Ann looked out the window. “You’re right. The sun does say hello. Okay. Where’s your jacket? Go get your jacket and we’ll go out in the garden.” Christian thought she looked relieved, using the excuse to take Bernie to the garden as a way to avoid their inevitable conversation. Bernie went to find her coat, her feet pounding on the hardwood.

“Beth Ann!” came the plaintive wail from across the hall.

Christian watched as Beth Ann stood still, her face torn as she was pulled in two directions. If he noticed her glow before, now he saw the haggard dark circles under her eyes, the fine lines that would deepen with age, the tightness around her mouth. Why did he suddenly want to kiss that mouth, soften the edges—

Bernie came back, dragging her coat across the floor, a chubby fist clutched around a sleeve.

“Let’s go check on Nana,” Beth Ann said, grasping Bernie’s wrist.

Bernie fell to the floor, coat and all, legs splayed in a skater’s death spiral. Christian blinked and watched her face shrivel up again. He braced himself for the inevitable onslaught.

“No! Garrr-dennn!”

“We need to check on Nana,” Beth Ann insisted as she tried to untangle Bernie from her coat.

“Beth Ann?” The frail voice was even more panicked.

Christian watched the display unfold before him, feeling rather like a guest on a rambunctious talk show. Bernie was spread-eagle on the floor, screaming as if she were being tortured. Beth Ann was trying to get her to stand up, and Iris was across the hall wailing in distress.

“Cavalry is here!” a cheerful voice announced as the door banged open.

“Glenn!” Beth Ann looked up in relief, and Christian felt a small twinge of jealousy, as her face relaxed into a smile welcoming the new guest.

“Beth Ann!”

“Garrrdennn!”

The tall, handsome man, with classic features and a smile that would make any woman’s heart throb, brought that green twinge up several notches as he gave Beth Ann an affectionate smooch on the cheek, then turned toward Bernie with a playful growl. “And who’s this doing all the screaming?” He swooped down and picked up Bernie who stopped midcry as her world spun crazily around her.

He hung her upside down, then placed exaggerated kisses all over her face until she giggled with laughter.

“Oh, Pop-pop!” she said with such adult exasperation that everyone laughed.

Two more notches on the green scale.

“Beth Ann!” The wail came again.

“Excuse me,” Beth Ann said hurriedly.

“Looks like I came at the right time, sweetheart,” Glenn said with certain affection.

Off the charts. The green scale no longer was an adequate measure of the envy Christian felt. He stared at the tall man, nearly the same height as himself, and grudgingly admitted that some women might find him attractive, if they liked the blond ski instructor type. With Bernie propped on his right arm and his left hand massaging the nape of Beth Ann’s neck, Glenn looked like a welcome member of this little family. Glenn gave Beth Ann a quick kiss on the top of her curls. “Go to your charge. I’ll take care of this rug rat.” Glenn renewed his tickling of Bernie who screamed with laughter.

Beth Ann looked at Bernie and Glenn, then at Christian. “I’ll be right back. Help yourself to the coffee.” She gestured toward Christian. “Oh, by the way. This is my friend, Glenn. Glenn, that’s Christian Elliott, Carrie’s husband.”

And then she was gone, her escape seeming well-timed.