by Kris Jayne
“You don’t understand. You’re not—”
“I’m not, what?” he interrupted, defensive again.
“A parent. You don’t know what it’s like to have to protect a child and make sure they make good decisions,” I said.
“Katerina’s an adult now.”
“She’s twenty-one. That barely qualifies.”
“She’s old enough to drink and vote. She runs her own life. She’ll be okay. It’s only money, and between you and me and Terrence and Adrian’s parents, we’ll make sure they’re okay.”
That he included himself in the mix of Katerina’s supporters should have made me happy, but I was already riled.
“So, I just sit here and do nothing?” I jumped up in protest and strode across the kitchen to get a glass of water. Griffin stood and turned, leaning on the counter, arms crossed.
“You let your grown daughter run her own life. She’ll only resent you if you try to micromanage her,” Griffin replied in a quiet voice that I know he intended to be pacifying. Why was everyone treating me like a screaming, thrashing toddler?
“I’m not micromanaging. I’m mothering. It’s my job.”
I slammed the tumbler of ice water on the counter, and it sloshed, cold and wet on my hand. How could he not see what a disaster this was? I had to do something.
“I don’t want to argue with you.” Griffin pulled me into his arms. “My only point is: you don’t have to take on your mother’s mess. That’s what this is about, really. Isn’t it?”
“What?” I murmured into his neck.
“You’ve been hurt by your mother and embarrassed by her, and so you want to keep her away and pretend like none of it happened. You’ve built a life around a rejection of what she symbolizes, and now, you want to defend that existence. I get that. Believe me. But she’s no reflection on you. Her behavior is hers. If it all goes sideways, then you’ll deal with it.”
I jerked back. “I don’t want to have to pick up the pieces when my daughter feels used after Mom pulls one of her heists.”
“You can’t control that. And,” Griffin squinted, bracing, “maybe she’ll surprise you.”
“When pigs fucking fly.”
He opened his mouth to counter my eloquent rebuttal, then closed it again.
“It’s the same thing over and over. You know what she said to me today?”
He shook his head and brushed my hairline with his thumb before kissing my forehead. Once. Twice.
“She said the same thing she said when I ask her to tell me about my father. ‘If I owed you something, you’d have it.’” Emotion filled my throat, and tears refilled my eyes.
“Well, in your mind, she’s a liar, so take it with a grain of salt. She owed you a lot more than she gave you, and she doesn’t like admitting it. You know that.”
“It still hurts. And I hate that she can still make me feel like shit. And she’s done apologizing, she said. Fuck her. I know that’s terrible to say, but fuck my mother.”
The tears threatening the entire day now fell in rivers.
“Oh, Delilah, I’m sorry,” he said, holding me again.
“I shouldn’t have brought up my father.”
He squeezed me tighter. “I thought no one knew who he was.”
“She does. She used to pretend that she didn’t. Then, she admitted that she knew who he was, but she just refuses to talk about it.”
Griffin stiffened and stepped back, holding my hands. “Maybe she has a reason to not talk about it.”
“I asked her that a long time ago,” I said. “If I was the product of a rape. The look on her face.”
I could still see her flinch. Her eyes had gone wide with shock at the suggestion.
“Did she look traumatized?” he asked.
“No. Aggrieved. Like I’d spoiled some precious memory by asking the question. She said, ‘Absolutely not.’ But then she refused to say anything else. That’s the most information I have about him, ‘absolutely not.’ It’s like she loved him. But then why not tell me who he is?”
“Maybe whatever happened was just as painful.”
“How could love be that terrible?”
“I don’t know. It’s her secret.”
“But it’s mine, too. Growing up missing half of who I am, it’s awful, and she could fix that. Then, to tell me today, after everything else, that she doesn’t owe me anything?”
I shuddered back into Griffin’s arms and cried.
Chapter 23
Griffin
Dad woke up tired and not feeling well, so he didn’t make it into the office. Instead, I left at lunch and swung by the house, driving slowly to push through intermittent torrents of rain. The cold, clammy air and dark skies dampened my mood alongside the anxiety I had over his health.
Then, I walked into his office and saw him dressed with uncharacteristic sloppiness in sweatpants and a long-sleeved Duke T-shirt.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
He turned and waved at me to be quiet, holding his cell phone in his hand as he paced the room. “Well, make sure we close this before summer. I don’t want to leave loose ends. Work with Carter.”
He rolled his eyes, barely containing his irritation at whatever objections streamed at him through his earbuds.
“Griffin’s here temporarily. He’s got his own company to run.”
I could see the precise moment Dad decided to stop being nice. His shoulders pulled back like an arched bow.
“You’re just mad because when he took over running the west division, he increased profitability twenty percent in his first quarter and made you look inept,” he boomed. “It’s not magic. Carter’s just smarter than you. It’s a good thing, too. Run the final contract by him before it goes to legal. I have to go.”
He tapped the button on his phone and lessened the grumble in his tone. “I’m fine. Have a seat.”
“You’re casual today.” I gestured toward his outfit.
“It’s Friday, and I’m learning to be more relaxed,” he said, returning to the massive burgundy leather office chair behind his desk. He poured a cup of the hot tea he’d taken to drinking in the afternoon instead of more coffee or, in another hour, bourbon.
His blunt takedown of an adversary capped by a chipper laugh and the lack of complaint over afternoon tea eased my concern. I sat in the guest chair across from him.
“Who was that pissing you off?” I asked.
“One of our partners on this deal in Georgia. He used to work here, but then left after I promoted Carter instead of him. I thought he’d gotten over it. He hasn’t, but it doesn’t matter. The deal will get done, and we’ll move on. How are things with the board?”
I gave him a rundown of all the meetings I’d had. I provided the list of the few board members who were still hesitating to back Carter and those who weren’t ever likely to change their minds.
“He’ll have a few enemies. That’s not going to change, but I’ll get most of them there. Don’t worry,” I assured him.
Dad grinned. “I’m not. When you put your effort into something, you get it done.”
Pride warmed his voice, and I felt like a third-grader holding up my lopsided art project for his approval.
“Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
His smile widened. “I’m sure it’s not news to you. I used to think you lacked ambition, but I think I just couldn’t grasp that you didn’t want what I had.”
“I’m not cut out to follow in someone else’s footsteps.”
Dad tipped back in his chair, tapping his steepled index fingers on his chin. “You’re an explorer, not a conservationist. KCRE would have stifled you. Although…” His smile took on a mischievous lean. “Now, you’ve established your own leadership style. If you came back…”
He raised his brows and let his voice sing as he trailed off.
I laughed, knowing that he knew my returning was impossible. “Keep dreaming.”
He sat forward and threw his
hands to the walnut desk. “I know. Let a man hold on to his visions of working side by side with his son.”
“You have Gregory Jr.”
Dad rolled his eyes again. “I’ll be gumming my pudding in an old folks home by the time Junior is old enough to take charge of the company.”
I cackled at the image. “That’s harsh.”
“I’m a realist. I’m an old man to have such young kids,” he sighed.
“But you like it, don’t you?” I asked. We’d never talked about his becoming a father again and what that must be like.
“I do. I get to think about all the things I screwed up with you and try to get them right.” He picked up a gold pen on his desk and dropped it into a leather-encased holder.
“It wasn’t all bad,” I admitted.
He shook his head and stared at me, eyes softening. “I didn’t do right by you. I know that. I…I don’t like talking about my mistakes.”
No, shit. But I chose not to pounce on his incomplete confession. Each time we covered this ground, he came a little closer to an actual apology. Maybe Delilah was right a few days ago. Maybe one day, I’d get one.
“I made my own mistakes. I always felt guilty I didn’t come home when Grace was born. I’m sorry about that,” I admitted, eyeing my father to feel him out as I broached the topic.
His pale, creased skin froze over his broad head, and he looked away. His lips twitched, and his eyes drifted toward the window. Shadowy blue-gray light drifted over the room. Instant regret pushed me to change the topic.
“Anyway—” I began.
“Why should you feel guilty?” Dad’s quiet question cut me off. He squeezed his knee and scooted his chair back to extend his legs. When I didn’t answer right away, he laughed softly to himself. “My damned joints act up when there’s rain. God, I’m old.”
His chuckled faded, and he waited.
I struggled to find my voice to answer him. There were the secrets I kept, but also, knowing Grace now, the idea that something might have happened to her before she had a chance to become the little hellion she was bound to be made me ache.
“Grace was born early and was in the hospital those extra days. She’s my little sister, and I stayed away,” I said finally.
My father heaved a heavy sigh as if expelling years of his own regret. “Don’t feel bad about that. Grace was fine.”
Dad waved away the concern, and that baffled me. “Being born pre-mature and spending a week in the hospital?”
His eyes drifted again over my shoulder to the window. “As you can tell, she’s a strong, healthy child. She’s fine.”
I coughed a lump from my throat. “And Marisa, too. Childbirth can be dangerous. Going into labor too soon…”
Silence stretched, and a rumble of thunder rolled in from the distance.
“Don’t feel bad. Seriously, Griffin.” Then, his gaze squared with mine. “We may have…overstated how early Grace was born.”
“Overstated?” I gripped the arm of my chair. I felt like the atmosphere was losing pressure and I might get sucked outside into the churning storm. “What do you mean?”
The months before I found out that Marisa and my father were together swam in my memory. The math lingered in my head even now—the numbers and dates and internet-searched gestation timelines that had cleared me nearly seven years ago.
My father simply sighed again.
“What do you mean, Dad?” I insisted.
“Marisa wasn’t due in August.” His face relaxed, and he sipped his tea.
“What?” My mental abacus clicked and counted. “When was she due?”
Dad skipped that question and kept going with his own line of thought. “We didn’t want the real due date out. People were already talking about the fact that I was marrying my son’s ex-girlfriend and talking about our age difference. We didn’t want them talking even more about how she was pregnant, so we waited until after we announced our engagement to tell everyone and fudged the due date a little.”
“How much?” I asked again, trying not to sound as desperate as I was.
“A few weeks.”
“So, Grace wasn’t born early?”
“No, we…Marisa…she…” Dad stumbled, rearranging his words before settling on a tack. “The doctor reacted to Marisa’s complaints and agreed that she should stay in the hospital an extra couple of days. We kept people from visiting for a few weeks until we could tell everyone that Grace was gaining weight and doing well. We—”
That fucking bitch of a liar. She pulled all our strings like Geppetto only she was the one whose nose should stretch from Raleigh to Memphis.
She lied to the doctor, to Dad, and to me.
And, maybe, to Grace.
There’s only one reason Marisa would go through all that trouble, and that’s if she weren’t sure whether Gregory Sr. was Grace’s father.
Or if I was.
That idiotic summer I spent mooning over her when she came up to visit New York. Screwing on the beach in the Hamptons, in a guest bedroom at a friend’s house party. One weekend, I surprised her down here, and we stayed in bed all day before she picked a screaming fight. I stormed out of her apartment and back to New York to lick my wounds.
When I came home for Christmas, I planned to call her and try to make things up to her. I still wanted her. God only knows why.
The wicked genius of her is that she actually convinced him to go along with her lie.
“Don’t blame Marisa. Shifting the due date with our friends was my idea,” Dad said.
I’ll bet it was.
“It’s okay, Dad,” I ground out.
“There’s no reason to mention to Marisa that I told you. She’d be embarrassed, and she’s asked me not to talk about the past with you. She wants to move forward without any fights.”
Of course, she did. I’d be doing more than mentioning it to her as soon as I figured out what I might say to her. How could I confront her without getting in her face and screaming until her fake eyelashes flew off? Guilt at going behind Dad’s back twisted up my neck until pain pulsed at my temples.
Dad, on the other hand, looked relieved. “I’ve always felt strange misrepresenting what happened. I wanted Marisa to be comfortable. I didn’t want anyone to say nasty things about Grace.”
“You’re protecting her.”
“She’s my little girl.” Dad’s trembling smile of adoration shook me.
I couldn’t tell him the truth, not without knowing for sure what that was.
Chapter 24
Delilah
“I have to tell you something.”
Griffin arrived back at the rental house so pale and dazed, I thought he’d been in an accident.
“Wait, sit down.” I guided him to the sofa, and he sat and pitched backward against the overstuffed leather sofa that reminded me of a burned marshmallow. In the summer, it would probably be just as sticky. I hated leather furniture.
“Oh, God, I don’t even know where to start,” he moaned.
“At the beginning,” I said, dropping next to him and slinging an arm around his shoulders.
“The beginning isn’t the point. It’s the end. Or what I thought was the end.”
He groaned again, pulled his palms down his face, and took a deep breath.
“Griffin?” I squeezed his thick bicep and kissed his shoulder.
“It’s me and Marisa.”
My heart sank. I knew she had her eye on him. I could tell she still wanted him—preferred him even—at least physically.
“Did something happen between you and Marisa?”
“More than anyone knows.” He pounded his fists on his knees and turned his anguished face to mine.
I froze, still wrapped around him but feeling like I needed to retreat. “Did you…sleep with her or something?”
“Yes, but not…Jesus, not recently. Seven years ago, after we’d already broken up.”
My gut tumbled with shock. The impact of his words washed
over me, and my heart did break. But not for myself. For Griffin. And, dear God…for Grace.
“Grace is six.”
Griffin’s face contorted. “Yes.”
“Could you be Grace’s father?”
“I don’t know.”
“How could you not have found that out by now?” I controlled myself enough not to shout the question. In seven years, this is the first time he’d considered the possibility?
Griffin moaned and sighed and launched into a winding tale about Marisa, drunken parties in the Hamptons, and the reignition of their relationship that culminated in this tormenting possibility.
How could he not have known? I nearly asked him that a hundred times as he dug deeper into the story with each question I did ask. He had taken Marisa at her word, and from the calculations he figured, she couldn’t have conceived in early October. That was the last time they were together, so a due date toward mid-August eliminated him from the running.
But that had been a lie.
“You never considered that Grace could be yours?” I couldn’t hide the disbelief in my voice.
“No!” he shouted. “Sorry. But not after she and my dad announced that she was due in August. The earliest she could have conceived was November, I thought. So I didn’t press. Besides, then I’d have to admit to my dad that she was still sleeping with me while she was with him. The thought of that just made me ill.”
“After what he’d done, you didn’t want to let him know who he was marrying?” Another insistent question popped out of me.
Griffin’s eyes slipped closed, and he folded over, elbows anchored on his thighs. “I can still see his face that day in the kitchen. He was nervous. He was arrogant, but he was excited. He was resolute. He had his arm around her. He was protective and doting. In that moment, he was everything I wasn’t, and maybe I thought she was better off with him. With the better version of me. Plus, why complicate what was already a shitshow situation? If Dad wanted her so badly, he could have her.”
“When did you find out she was pregnant?”
