by Cheryl Holt
The woman was using a headphone for her telephone, her fingers typing on her computer as she talked to someone. She disconnected as Angela approached.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“Yes, I was…ah…I’d like to speak with Mr. Merriweather.” She paused, then clarified, “Dustin Merriweather. I’m a friend of his?”
“Mr. Merriweather doesn’t work here.”
“Would you know how I could get hold of him?”
“I’m not allowed to give out personal information.”
“I understand.”
Angela bit her lip and fiddled with her skirt, wondering what to do. She felt stupid and awfully close to crying.
“He gave me his phone number”—she pulled out the slip of paper and laid it on the desk—“but I must have written it down wrong. Could you check it for me?”
The woman flashed a sympathetic smile, but didn’t glance at it. “Even if I was permitted to tell you—which I’m not—I don’t know his private number. I wouldn’t have any idea if this number was correct or not.”
“Is there someone you could ask? Is there some way I could—“
The phone rang and the woman answered it, her eyes on her computer screen. She was pretending Angela was invisible, clearly wishing she’d go away. Angela watched her, attempting—through sheer force of will—to make the woman cough up the assistance Angela needed.
“I’m sorry Mr. Dalton,” she murmured in her headpiece in her soft, receptionist’s voice, “but Mr. Merriweather left for Los Angeles yesterday afternoon.” She listened for a moment, then said, “Yes, you could try him there. Thank you.”
She punched a button to hang up, then she gazed at Angela, her expression bored and cool. Angela was shaking and could barely keep from falling to the floor in a stunned heap.
“He left for Los Angeles?” Angela mumbled. “Without me?”
“I’m not allowed to give out personal information,” the woman repeated.
“But…but…I betrayed my sister for him,” she pathetically confessed. “I taped her. To surprise him. To make him happy.”
“Would you like some help with the elevator?” the woman calmly inquired. “You seem distraught. I could have someone escort you downstairs.”
Angela stared, her heart breaking. She wanted to tell her how much she’d liked Dustin, how sure she’d been that he was The One, how eagerly she’d anticipated their trip.
She’d deceived Faith, had provided Dustin with the false evidence he needed to go after her in the courts. Faith might end up losing all the money—because of Angela. She might even be arrested and sent to jail.
When Angela had devised her scheme, she hadn’t thought she’d cause any real damage. She’d simply meant to impress Dustin, then after they were together, she would have told him the truth. No action would ever have been taken against Faith.
What was she to do now? How could she fix what she’d done?
Dustin was a liar who’d used her, then sneaked off without a goodbye. Angela didn’t have him in her life, and because of him, she didn’t have Faith and Gracie either. What would become of her? Maybe she was invisible—as the receptionist was intimating.
Behind her, the elevator dinged.
The woman smiled her fake smile and gestured to it.
“Would you like some assistance?” she asked.
“No,” Angela said. “I’ve always had to do everything on my own. I can do this too.”
Feeling as if she’d died inside, she spun and lurched away.
CHAPTER TEN
Three months later…
“Penny for your thoughts.”
“They’re not worth a penny.”
Lucas stared at his sister.
She’d been diving in Hawaii, and while summer was over, and autumn flying by, her skin was a golden tan. She looked beautiful, but in a stark way, as if she occasionally starved herself. If she wasn’t careful, she’d begin to resemble their mother much too closely.
“I haven’t seen you since June,” she said.
“No, you haven’t.”
“How have you been?”
“The same.”
He should have exhibited a bit of courtesy, should have asked how she was doing in return, but he wasn’t in the mood to chat. He wasn’t interested in her newest boyfriend or her most recent social foible. Each time they were together, it became more obvious they had nothing in common.
At their last meeting, they’d congregated in Denver to deal with Faith. Now they were back, assembled in the old mansion and entertaining some of Denver’s elite. Lucas wasn’t acquainted with any of the people Jacquelyn had invited, and he didn’t understand why they maintained the pretense that they still had a connection to the city.
His mother liked to flaunt their status, but it had been earned a century earlier, as the frontier days were waning. The prior generations of Merriweathers had amassed the wealth. Lucas and his siblings simply spent what remained. It seemed silly that they possessed a patina of exalted position in the community.
The four of them were acting as if they were amiable and on good terms, but Lucas couldn’t forget the bitter words exchanged over the summer, the bitter truths that had been revealed.
Brittney had been complicit with Dustin in sneaking around and taking pictures of Lucas. What else might she do at Dustin’s behest? He didn’t want to know and was weary of the charade that they were friends.
But she was determined to engage in a conversation.
“I called you a few times,” she mentioned.
“Did you?”
“Yes, but you never called me back. I heard you were in Rio.”
He didn’t reply. He’d been in Rio as well as London, Brisbane, Rome, and Johannesburg. While previously he’d loved to travel, had loved his itinerant life and the freedom that came with it, his old haunts had brought him no satisfaction. Too many ghosts had accompanied him.
He kept thinking about Faith, about Grace and Bryce and Peanut and how they weren’t related by blood, but had built a strong family anyway. He kept thinking about his mother and siblings, about their nonexistent bond. He kept thinking about his deceased grandfather, his deceased father.
He no longer believed the stories his parents had spun about Harold’s retirement, that he’d given his company to Lucas’s father, then sailed quietly into the sunset.
Lucas had conducted his own research, and whenever he lifted a rock, cockroaches crawled out. His father had pushed Harold out, had stolen what he could, then had left the elderly man broke and alone.
What kind of son did that to his father?
Somehow Harold had accumulated a second fortune, a small one compared to the huge Merriweather legacy, but a fortune nonetheless. He’d entrusted it to Faith, had asked her to use it for Bryce’s and Peanut’s benefit. And she was carrying out his wishes.
Dustin wasn’t the only one who could hire detectives. Lucas knew, almost to the dollar, what Faith spent every month. She was no greedy gold digger, but exactly the sort of person she’d appeared to be: trustworthy, loyal, and dependable.
He’d had months to reflect, and he was ashamed of how he’d doubted her, of how he’d shouted and accused.
He wanted to tell her he was sorry, but pride was a ridiculous thing. He was afraid she hadn’t forgiven him, that he’d show up on her stoop and she’d slam the door in his face.
So he’d remained in limbo, fussing over what might have been, and kicking himself for wrecking the chance to be around his son.
“Were you in Rio?” Brittney tried again.
“Briefly.”
“Where are you going next? I thought I might go with you. I thought maybe we could hang out.”
Doing what? he nearly snapped but didn’t.
Behind her, he saw that his mother had escorted the final guests out the door. She was back in the grand front parlor, a wine glass in hand. She’d been drinking all evening and was struggling to hide the fact that she was tips
y. But he didn’t blame her for her attempts at intoxication.
Their quarrel over Bryce had been ugly, and since then, they hadn’t interacted. If another mother/son chat was pending, why do it sober?
He had his own drink—a whiskey over ice—and he downed the contents then set the glass on the mantle.
Why had he come to Denver? He detested the entire farce: their playing at cordiality, the company, the mansion, the negligible ties that bound them to the city. He couldn’t bear to have strangers fawning over them—as if any of it still mattered.
“I have an announcement,” he said.
“Don’t be dramatic,” his mother sniffed. “It’s late, and I’m not in the mood for theatrics.”
He ignored her. “I’m beginning negotiations with the Historical Society to sell them the mansion.”
“What?” Brittney gasped. “You can’t do that. It belongs to all of us. I’d never agree to give it away.”
“It doesn’t belong to all of us,” Lucas reminded them. “It belongs to me, and I don’t care to continue paying for the upkeep. It’s silly—when none of us even lives here. None of us wants to live here. The place just sits empty, year after year. It’s filled with antiques; it should be a museum.”
“Mother,” Brittney whined, “you won’t let him, will you?”
“No, I won’t. He’ll sell it over my dead body.”
“I’m not ten, Jackie,” Lucas chided. “If I decide to turn this monstrosity into a museum, I will and you can’t stop me.”
“You will not speak to me in that tone of voice.”
Dustin cut in, trying to avert a fight. “We don’t need to be hasty. We should think about it.”
“Why?”
“We all have a stake.”
“We don’t,” Lucas said. “We didn’t grow up here, and we’ve always hated it.”
“This mansion,” Jackie huffed, “was built by your ancestors.”
“You don’t get to lecture me about family, Jackie. You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“I suppose you’re still smarting over that…child in Boulder.”
Lucas stared, realizing how little emotion he felt for her.
“Say his name, Jackie. You know what it is.”
“I won’t dignify him with an identity. He’s nothing to us.”
“Jackie,” Dustin scolded, “that was unnecessary.”
“Don’t start in on me, Dustin,” she sniped. “I won’t have you defending your brother. Not on this topic. It’s absurd.”
“Speaking of the boy—” Dustin chimed in.
“What boy?” Brittney asked, but no one bothered to explain.
“His name is Bryce,” Lucas tightly said.
“Fine,” Dustin replied, “speaking of Bryce, where are we with Faith Benjamin?”
“I’m not pursuing her. I told you I wouldn’t.”
Dustin threw up his hands. “I gave you all the evidence you need to hang her.”
“You certainly did.”
“What about the tape?” Dustin complained.
“What about it?” Lucas responded. “Did you pay her to make it? Or did you simply seduce her and pretend you’d date her if she betrayed Faith? How low were you willing to go?”
“I screwed her brains out,” Dustin crudely retorted, “and afterward, she begged to help me.”
“I’ll just bet she did.”
“Hey,” Dustin mocked, “whatever works, right? I’m my father’s son. I did what I had to do.”
“If you want to exhibit his worst traits,” Lucas warned, “I wouldn’t brag about it to me.”
“Your father,” Jackie felt the need to inform Lucas, “was ten times the man you are, and I won’t have you denigrating him.”
“Stay out of this, Jackie.”
“He would have dealt with Ms. Benjamin in a heartbeat. She wouldn’t have lingered on the fringes of our lives, making fools of us each and every day.”
“Like my wife, Katie, made fools of us?”
“Lucky for you, your father had the fortitude to handle your mess. Just imagine where you’d be now, a decade later, if you were trapped in that marriage.”
“What are you talking about?” Brittney demanded. “What marriage? Who is the boy you’re discussing? Am I some stranger on the street who can’t be allowed to know your secrets?”
“If I thought you should be apprised,” Jackie snidely said, “I’d tell you. Be silent.”
Lucas sighed and poured himself another whiskey. As he sipped it, he studied his tiny family. It was a sorry statement on the condition of his life that they were the only people in the world to whom he was connected.
He was disgusted and eager to escape, and he wondered if he’d ever see any of them again. He didn’t suppose he would.
“Goodbye.” He started for the door.
“Where are you going?” Brittney inquired, actually sounding concerned.
He hadn’t been sure, but his next location fell on him like a ton of bricks.
“Boulder.”
“Why Boulder?”
“To see Faith. To see Bryce and Peanut.”
“Who is Bryce? Who is Peanut?” Brittney was frowning, perplexed.
Lucas didn’t answer her. Let Jackie do it. Let Dustin. Lucas had no desire to hash it out.
He glared at his mother. “Don’t summon me for anymore of your gatherings. I won’t come.”
“You will if I say you will.”
“No. Never again. There’s no point. I’ll notify you when I’ve resolved the issues with this house.”
“Lucas!” Brittney pleaded. “Don’t do it.”
He ignored her again. “In the meantime, if you have to contact me, I’d appreciate it if you’d send any messages through my lawyer in New York. You all have his number.”
He strolled out, and behind him, he heard Dustin mutter, “Bastard.”
“What boy?” Brittney said. “What marriage? Someone tell me what’s going on. Why is he so upset?”
Lucas went to his car, got in, and drove away. As the old mansion receded in his rearview mirror, he felt free for the first time ever.
* * * *
Angela knocked on Faith’s front door.
In better days, she’d have simply walked in. There would have been no need to knock, but she’d relinquished her spot as a member of the family. If Faith told her to go away, she didn’t know what she’d do.
Since her stupid, futile encounter with Dustin Merriweather, she’d suffered one catastrophe after the next. She’d lost her apartment, her unemployment had run out. She’d been sleeping on an acquaintance’s couch—a male acquaintance—and he’d begun to suggest that she should pay for the privilege. From his lewd glances, he’d been very clear as to what sort of compensation he expected.
Gracie and Faith had always been the safe harbor to which she returned. After heartache or disaster, they welcomed her with open arms.
No matter what Angela did, no matter how she acted, they forgave and accepted her for who and what she was. But she’d squandered that affection. Would they give her a chance to win it back?
She knocked again, and Peanut answered.
“Hi Angela.”
She stared up at Angela with those big Merriweather blue eyes. She was so pretty, like a little curly-headed doll. Previously, Angela had never cared much about her; she’d been too focused on herself. Now she could barely keep from falling to her knees and pulling her into a tight hug.
“Hey Peanut.”
“I haven’t seen you in a long time,” Peanut said. “Where have you been?”
“Here and there. Is Faith home?”
“She’s at the store.”
“How about Gracie?”
“She’s in the kitchen.”
Peanut appeared blissfully unaware of the adult conflict that had roiled the house a few months earlier. It would never occur to her that Angela shouldn’t come in, that Faith might not want her to.
She yanke
d the door wide, and Angela took a deep breath for courage and stepped over the threshold.
Peanut skittered off, leaving Angela alone in the living room. It was quiet, and it smelled of flowers and sunshine. There was a roast in the oven, the aroma hinting at supper where they’d all sit at the dining table together and eat like the family they were.
Tears flooded her eyes. She yearned to be at the table so fiercely that she would do anything to make it happen.
“Peanut,” Gracie called from the kitchen, “who was at the door?”
Angela went over and peeked in. Gracie was hovered over a bottle of polish, painting her nails bright red.
Gracie had first taken in Angela when Angela was a kid. And she’d let Angela stay, despite how badly she had behaved. Gracie didn’t hold a grudge, and she was never bitter.
She knew life was hard for a woman, but then, whenever Angela had stolen money or run away, she’d done it to Gracie. Never to Faith. Gracie loved Faith and she wouldn’t tolerate anyone hurting Faith as Angela had.
Of the two, Gracie would be the most difficult to persuade. If Angela had wounded Faith too deeply, Gracie would toss her out.
“It’s me Gracie,” Angela said.
Gracie’s brush halted in mid-stroke, then slowly, she raised her gaze to Angela’s.
“You finally slithered home,” Gracie replied. “What do you want?”
“I came to say I’m sorry.”
“You’re always sorry. It doesn’t change anything.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt anybody.”
“You never do, but you hurt them just the same.”
Angela felt ten years old again, young and abandoned, with sensible, wise Grace Green the only person in the world who would put up with her. Had she pushed Gracie too far?
Gracie studied her, pondering her fate, then she gestured to the chair across, indicating that Angela should sit. Angela stumbled over and plopped down.
She endured a tormented silence, with Gracie finishing her nails while Angela watched. Angela couldn’t remember how many times she’d done just that and she gained such comfort from the ordinary, normal routine.
“I’m supposing you’re here”—Gracie blew on her nails to speed their drying—“because you’ve hit bottom and you don’t have anywhere to go.”
“You’re right. I don’t have anywhere to go.”
