The Sky of Endless Blue

by Ava Miles

  She sank onto the chair, holding the box in her lap, fighting tears again. Just when she was so frustrated and defeated, he’d found the perfect way to tell her to hang on a little while longer. In the end, the decision was simple, she realized, as she traced his bold signature.

  She would hang on for love, no matter what.

  Chapter 21

  Arthur was pretty pleased with his Op-Ed on the new museum.

  He might be old as dirt, but there was nothing wrong with his pen, so to speak. J.T. and Caroline had been surfing wild emotions all week, and the rest of his family hadn’t been faring much better. Even Meredith had popped off about Sin City being one of the meanest bitches she’d ever come across, and she’d been married to a prize dick before Tanner.

  While Arthur agreed, he’d reminded her to keep her eye on the prize. Tuck away the emotion and help him deliver the best pieces of journalism they could in response to Sin City’s bullshit. First, they’d put out his Op-Ed this morning about the Merriam collection finally coming to the university Emmits founded and why this was so important not only for Dare Valley but art lovers everywhere. Next, Tanner was going to print a piece on J.T.’s vision for bringing the museum to Dare Valley and the process he’d used to establish each painting’s provenance, noting his return of the stolen Nazi art in one instance. That should stave off some of the president’s fear-mongering.

  It was a good plan, and yet he’d crunched on so many red hots this week, his teeth hurt. His dentist—who was as old as him if not a few years senior—was going to have a field day when he went in for his next checkup.

  His Sunday looked pretty promising despite it all. Every Sunday there was a family get-together. Nowadays, there were plenty of babies, and he’d already set out a shirt they could drool and spit up on. Jared was a prize barfer, and if you asked him, Meredith probably overfed the poor kid. But was he going to say anything about that? Not in a million years. Men didn’t school women about breastfeeding. He might as well go into witness protection if he tried to put out any pearls of wisdom on that subject.

  His house phone rang, and he almost sighed at the prospect of hurrying to his home office to answer it. He rather liked the convenience of carrying his cell phone with him. Grabbing his cane, he moved as quickly as he could—which these days would make a turtle feel accomplished—and picked up the call.

  “Hale residence,” he said into the receiver. Of course, as a greeting it was stupid. He wasn’t the only Hale in town, but he’d been the first, so he figured he was entitled.

  “Arthur Hale,” a woman said. “I’m so glad I caught you. I wanted to commend you on that prize work of journalistic objectivity in The Western Independent today.”

  “Who is this?” he barked, although part of him already knew. Hard to mistake that tony voice for a local from Dare Valley.

  “Cynthia Newhouse,” the reply came as he’d expected. “We’ve never met, but after what I read in the paper this morning, I felt we should.”

  Her spider web might be spun with gold thread, but it was still a web. He’d seen plenty of keen talkers in his day. “Many people have felt that way about my Op-Eds over the years. I tend to disagree with the sentiment. My opinion is my own. That’s what the op part of the ed means, in case you didn’t know, young lady.”

  Her laughter tinkled like a bell, and Arthur wondered if J.T. had been charmed by it. God help them from the power a woman’s laughter had over a man’s dick. It had brought down many a man throughout history. He’d always wondered about Cleopatra’s laugh. She must have had a doozy to bring first Caesar and then Mark Anthony to their knees.

  “Oh, I’ve heard you were cantankerous and crafty,” she said. “My father usually appreciates your Op-Ed pieces, but as you might imagine, it gave him indigestion this morning. My breakfast didn’t sit well either, of course. We’re a very tight family.”

  She’d mentioned her powerful father to intimidate him, no doubt, but he wasn’t the type to care about pissing off someone powerful. If he had been, he would have shuttered the newspaper long ago. “Good for you. Now, I don’t mean to be rude, Ms. Newhouse, but it’s Sunday. My day off. If you have a comment on the Op-Ed, you can go the comments section online. You can thank my granddaughter for that. But you should know. I don’t read them. I’m old-fashioned that way.”

  “Indeed,” she drawled out, her silky voice evocative of money and fur coats. “Well, we’ve been introduced, and I’ve noted my complaint.”

  “Taken. Goodbye, Ms. Newhouse.”

  “No, Mr. Hale,” she said. “Do you know French?”

  “What am I, a cretin? Of course I know some French.”

  She laughed again, and this time the sound set his already sensitive teeth on edge.

  “Well, then you’ll understand this saying: à bientôt.”

  She hung up, and he rubbed his chest, surprised at the tightness there. See you soon. Coming from that viper’s mouth, it didn’t bode well. But hell, he’d known what he was doing. The fact that he’d pissed off Ms. Newhouse and her powerful father meant he’d done his job well.

  He cracked his neck. God, he liked the challenge of it. But he probably shouldn’t tell J.T. about her call. The kid’s nerves were at the breaking point as it were. He sure as hell wasn’t going to tell poor Caroline.

  Meredith and Tanner, however, would need to know. Meredith was still working on her piece while Tanner had mostly finished his. The last thing he needed to do was interview Sin City herself, and based on her call, Tanner was going to have his hands full. He probably shouldn’t go alone, Arthur thought.

  Sitting in the chair behind his desk, he picked up the phone again and dialed them. Meredith picked up on the third ring.

  “Hey, Grandpa,” she said. “Your Op-Ed looked great when I opened the paper this morning.”

  He puffed out his chest. Sure, she’d already read it, but his granddaughter was a Hale through and through. An article always looked its best in the newspaper itself. It was like the difference between seeing a dress on a mannequin in a store and then on some beautiful woman.

  “I just had a call from Cynthia Newhouse,” he said. “I need to brief you and Tanner. Are you going to today’s shindig?”

  “At Rhett and Abbie’s, yes,” she said. “Grandpa, that woman called you? Are you okay?”

  “Well, I’m not dead or anything,” he shot back. “Good God, child, what did you think it would do to me?”

  “I’m sorry, Grandpa,” she said softly. “I got worried.”

  He knew she worried more the older he got. He tried to be understanding. He really did. But it hurt his pride to be treated like he couldn’t handle himself anymore.

  “I know you did,” he said. “Don’t do it again. We exchanged pleasantries and the like. I’ll tell you more later. How about I brief you at the shindig? That way, you can park my great-grandson on someone’s lap.”

  “Good idea,” she said. “See you soon.”

  He harrumphed. That damn phrase again. Coming from his granddaughter, it didn’t have any malice, of course. But the reminder made his chest tighten up again. He pumped his chest with one fist. “We’re fine in there. Settle down.”

  Grabbing another red hot, he crunched as he let his mind stew on a subject he’d been mulling over for a few days now. Calling Clara Merriam. J.T. had claimed it wasn’t worth it, but Arthur wasn’t convinced. She had nearly two hundred paintings from the Merriam collection. If she decided to donate them to the museum, surely that would make news, and it would make the museum a more coveted prize. Plus, she ran in similar social circles as Cynthia’s family—or at least she used to. Hell, he didn’t know. She was seventy-six now, if his memory served him.

  Oh, what the hell. He was going to call her. Hadn’t he thought about calling and checking up on her after her husband died? Bah! An old man’s lunacy, he’d decided then. But now, he had a reason. If she made a fuss and J.T. found out, he’d blame old age. It had to be good for something.


  He rang her house after sifting through the ancient Rolodex in his home office.

  “Allerton residence,” a British male voice answered.

  Her married name surprised him for a moment. Then he wondered about the voice. Good God, she couldn’t have the same butler? Hell, he’d be as old as Arthur. No, this man had to be another in a long line of upper-crust servants. Clara had always had a thing for London.

  “Arthur Hale for Ms. Allerton,” he said.

  “If you’ll hold the line, I’ll see if she’s available,” the man said.

  He laid his cane aside. Clara Merriam had been a bit of a brat, no question. Still, they’d spent a fair bit of time together in New York City, back in the day. She might have fancied him, and he might have fancied her a bit too, but hell…that might be age talking. But even after all these years, he still remembered how beautiful she’d looked in an evening gown. Until her, he’d never seen a woman in one, and it had redefined the feminine form for him. And the way she used to take off those long gloves of hers… She’d gotten him hot under the collar every time, and she’d known it, dammit.

  “Arthur Hale, you old blaggard,” a woman’s voice sounded on the line.

  “Clara Merriam,” he said, a smile touching his face. “Damn but you sound the same.”

  “You sound old,” she said. “Aren’t you turning eighty in May?”

  He was surprised she remembered, but then again, she’d always been sharp as a tack. “Yes, and that makes you pretty old yourself.”

  “You’re flattering me,” she quipped. “I saw your Op-Ed in the paper this morning. I imagine you’re calling for J.T. to ask me if I’m willing to give up my part of my grandpa’s collection to this new museum. Your timing ruins any hopes I’d had that you still have a thing for me after all these years.”

  He tapped his finger on her card in his Rolodex, not knowing how to respond to that comment. Did she really read his paper? He’d never imagined it. “J.T. didn’t think it was worth asking.”

  “And yet you disagreed,” she said, irony lacing her tone. “How quaint. But he’s right. Why would I do that?”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do,” Arthur said. “I still can’t believe you waltzed into the house in the Hamptons and took all that art right after your mother died.”

  “I had my reasons,” she said. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

  He had, but she wasn’t getting off the hook. “Clara, the boy needs your help,” Arthur said, not giving her a chance to hang up. “I wouldn’t be calling otherwise.”

  “Don’t I know it,” she said. “We haven’t seen each other since my wedding day. You have some gall.”

  He’d never understood her choice in husbands, but if she had any regrets, she’d never shown it. She’d stayed married to the man until he’d died last year. “Gall is my middle name. I sent a card when your husband passed.” Like she’d done when he was grieving Harriet.

  “Do you expect a thank you? Maybe I was silly for thinking you might call instead.”

  Damn, she was going to make him confess it. “I did think about it, but decided against it. We haven’t seen each other since Kennedy was president.”

  There was a pause on the line. “And yet you’re still calling me about my paintings. Arthur, the Merriams pretty much disowned me. Why should I care about their problems?”

  “I know,” he said. “I tried to talk them out of it. It saddened me.”

  “Water under the bridge, as they say. If J.T. wants to ask me, he should do so himself. In person.”

  Oh, she was still infuriating, but she wasn’t wrong. He’d always believed the person needing a favor should be the one to ask. “What would your answer be if I can convince him to approach you?”

  “Like I’d tell you.”

  “After this conversation, I wish I’d called for a different reason. You’re still a brat.”

  “You know there were times over the years when I actually missed hearing you call me that.”

  Brat had been his pet name for her. She protested, of course, but it had always made her smile. Like that time she’d dragged him to an art gallery in Soho and brought the artist over, telling the confused man Arthur had volunteered to be painted nude. God, what a fireball she’d been. Infuriating as hell, of course, but only two people had ever been able to make him laugh like that. Harriet and Clara.

  “Then let me say it again. Brat.” Dear God, was he flirting?

  “Oh, you odious man! Goodbye, Arthur.”

  The phone went dead, and he frowned. Spinning the Rolodex for good measure, he grabbed another red hot and crunched. Hard. What was he supposed to make of that exchange? At their age, people might put them in a rest home for flirting. He eyed the phone again. She’d hung up, upset, but what was he supposed to do? Call and try and make it better? No one could do that with Clara. And yet…he’d liked sparring with her again like old times.

  Old times. You’d think he’d know better at his age.

  Well, he’d tried on the painting front. Perhaps he’d mention it to J.T. Then again, perhaps he wouldn’t. It wouldn’t surprise him if Clara slammed her door in J.T.’s face if he came calling. Waste of time, particularly given what they were up against on the home front.

  When he arrived at Rhett and Abbie’s house hours later, he wondered how he could have thought briefing Meredith and Tanner would be possible in such a zoo. Kids were everywhere, yelling like banshees as they zipped across the room. Adults were laughing raucously and stuffing their faces from the community buffet. It would be like trying to have a serious business meeting at a circus.

  “Arthur!” he heard Rhett drawl in greeting. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “A bourbon, neat,” he responded. Clara Merriam made a man want to dial up a stiff drink. Stiff. God, he was turning loony after a little flirting. In his time, they’d have said he was hard up. And the jokes continued, he thought.

  Rhett slapped his knee. “Whooee, that’s a tall drink order for a Sunday afternoon. You sure you want to go that hard this early? We have wine—”

  “If I wanted wine, I would have asked for it,” he barked. “Damnation, will everyone stop treating me like I’m elderly? I’m old. Not elderly.”

  Abbie came up beside Rhett, her face knit with concern. “I’m sure Rhett didn’t mean it like that, Arthur. Please, come with me. I’ll get you a bourbon. Everyone will be so happy to see you.”

  He allowed her to link arms with him. Oh, he knew it was a ploy to help him walk easier, but the help, while not welcome, was somewhat needed. Trying not to grind his teeth, he couldn’t help but say, “I always come to the Sunday shindig. Can’t understand why people would be any happier today than they were last Sunday.”

  “Because we just love you so much, Grandpa,” Jill said, appearing out of nowhere. She kissed his cheek noisily.

  “Do you have to leave a mark, Jillie?”

  “Oh, stop being a poo. I heard you bark at Rhett from across the room. He was only trying to be nice.”

  He harrumphed, his go-to response when words just wouldn’t do.

  Abbie led him over to the bar, and her brother, Mac Maven, proprietor of The Grand Mountain Hotel, greeted him with a warm smile.

  “Buffalo Trace okay?” he asked.

  “I need to go see Clara,” Abbie said. “I think Violet is undressing her.”

  Another Clara? God help him, he’d almost forgotten the name Abbie and Rhett had chosen for their daughter. Nothing against the baby, but he’d had his fill of women by that name today.

  He followed her with his gaze and saw his little great-granddaughter undressing the baby like she was a doll or something.

  “Jill did crap like that all the time growing up,” he said, shaking his head. “She once talked Brian into sticking pebbles up his nose.”

  Mac laughed. “Her little girls are always fun to watch.”

  “From afar,” Arthur said. “They put half-eaten Cheerios in my sho
es when they visited last time. I told Jill they can’t be left alone for a minute.”

  “Something she well knows,” Peggy McBride said, joining Mac at the bar. “Can I have a tonic water?”

  “You sick?” Arthur asked. “Fighting crime in Dare Valley running you down?”

  She laughed and shared a look with Mac.

  Oh, he’d lay odds on what that look meant… Looked like Jared would have another little cousin soon. He would have been elated—hell, who was he kidding, he was—except it meant he’d had it wrong about Jane being the next woman in their circle to end up pregnant. Well, it was early yet.

  “I’ve never felt better. Of course, I hear a particular woman staying at Mac’s hotel is giving a lot of people in town heartburn.”

  “Peggy,” her husband said.

  “Do I work for you? Besides, everyone here knows she’s a bitch. The only reason she’s staying at your hotel is that it’s still a free country and you can’t kick her out.”

  He rolled his eyes. “J.T. just arrived with Caroline. Here’s your bourbon, Arthur. Maybe you should go talk to them.”

  “I spoke with him last night as the paper went to print,” he said. “Can’t I enjoy my drink?”

  “From the look on J.T.’s face, no,” Peggy said. “That woman must be stirring up more trouble.”

  He squinted to see better. Sadly, his glasses didn’t give him twenty-twenty these days.

  “Yeah, he looks like he had bad milk,” he said. “Caroline too. People in love should look all rosy-cheeked. Like they’ve just gotten laid.” He sure as hell wasn’t rosy-cheeked anymore.

  Mac and Peggy started guffawing.

  Abbie, the poor innocent girl, gasped, looking over her shoulder at them as she redressed her daughter.

  “What? I said ‘laid’? You’d think it was a capital offense. Thanks for the bourbon, Mac.”