by Susan Floyd
“I can’t imagine why Carrie’s husband is here.”
“Really?” Glenn’s speculative gaze made Beth Ann turn away.
She shook her head and then guilt pulsated in her stomach. She didn’t want to lie to her dearest friend. “He might have mentioned something about Bernie inheriting a software company…”
Glenn was silent for so long that Beth Ann looked up. Eventually he asked, “Does he want Bernie?”
Beth Ann shrugged. “Do you think he knows the truth?”
“I don’t think so, but you should probably tell him anyway.”
“Are you nuts?” Beth Ann whirled around, then burst into tears, the thought sending terrible waves of dread through her. What if Christian did want Bernie? With his money, his clout, he’d cream her in court.
Glenn enveloped her in a warm hug. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you need to tell him. Now—while you’ve got nothing to lose.”
“I have everything to lose. I could lose Bernie.”
Dear Reader,
In our ever-changing world, the definition of family shifts, as well. Families expand and contract as people come into our lives or sadly, leave. But every person in the family, whether present or not, contributes to the wisdom, love and laughter shared by all.
In this story, the family is held together by the grit and love of Bethany Ann Bellamy. Caught between the energy of a youngster at the beginning of life and the needs of an elder nearing the end, Beth Ann doesn’t have the time to nurture her own life, her own dreams. Then she meets Christian Elliott, a man of great wealth and power but little understanding of what is truly important.
Please join Beth Ann and Christian as they journey together to discover that what is most real is often least appreciated.
I love to hear from my readers, so feel free to write me at P.O. Box 2883, Los Banos, CA 93635-2883 or visit me at www.superauthors.com.
Sincerely,
Susan Floyd
MR. ELLIOTT FINDS A FAMILY
Susan Floyd
For my dear friend, Annie, who’s found a family all her own.
A special thank-you to Lynne Collins, Darylee Ishimatsu,
Trix Peck, Brenda Latham, Suzanne Davis, Apryl Smith,
Leslie Grigsby and Melinda Wooten, who have all
generously shared their journey through
motherhood and their children for observation.
To Mom, Mother Bate and Grandmother Lucille—
we are forever in your debt.
To my own Fluff, a special pink elephant named Eledent.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
RAAAH! Raaah, raaah! Raaaahhh!
Bethany Ann Bellamy woke to the wail. She rolled over and groaned, steeling herself against the sound, vowing she wasn’t going to be the one to get up.
Not this time.
Just ten days old, Bernadette was Carrie’s responsibility. Beth Ann shut her eyes tightly in a vain attempt to ignore the plaintive cry of the small infant. An ache throbbed behind her left temple. She had been painting nonstop for the past month, her career as a watercolor artist just beginning to flower. With a small show in Sunnyvale opening in a matter of weeks, she didn’t have time—
Raaah! Raaah, raaah! Raaaahhh!
Beth Ann pulled the pillow around her ears. Couldn’t Carrie hear that?
Raaah! Raaah, raaah! Raaaahhh!
The unhappiness in the cry propelled Beth Ann out of bed. If she didn’t get Bernie, Iris surely would. At eighty-seven, Iris needed every moment of rest she could get. Having Carrie, pregnant and cranky, around the past months had taken its toll on all of them. Pushing her feet into worn slippers and pulling on a faded green chenille robe, Beth Ann stumbled out into the hall, her eyes bleary with sleep deprivation, her subconscious still wrestling with a problematic sap green splatter in the center of a near perfect watercolor wash. She heard a creak in Iris’s bedroom.
“I’ve got her, Grans,” Beth Ann whispered as she shuffled past.
Raaah!
Poor Bernie. It wasn’t her fault. Beth Ann padded quietly to the small room where Bernie and Carrie slept. At the sound of the door squeaking open, Bernie stared up at her, distress in her large eyes. Then her tiny mouth opened.
Raaah! Raaah, raaah! Raaaahhh!
Beth Ann scooped up the infant, gently cradling her head, pressing her close to her chest. Bernie instinctively sought to connect with a nipple.
“Shh. Bernie-Bern-Bern,” Beth Ann crooned as she rocked her, supporting her head, pushing her higher up on her shoulder. “You’re okay, sweetie. Shhhh, shhh. Bernie’s okay.”
Raaah, raaah, raaaahh, raaaahh.
“Let’s go find your mommy. Where’s your mommy?”
Raaah, hiccup, raaah?
“I know, sweetie. You’re so hungry.”
Still rocking Bernie, Beth Ann swiftly negotiated the narrow halls and sharp angles of the sixty-year-old, one-story bungalow that she and Carrie had grown up in. In the large kitchen, she took out a bottle of prepared formula from the fridge, shook it vigorously and popped it in the microwave, her hand automatically pressing buttons. As they waited, Beth Ann tickled Bernie’s rounded cheek. Twenty-eight seconds later—ding!
“Where’s your mommy, sweetheart?” Beth Ann whispered as Bernie fought against the rubber nipple, her tiny head turning away in her frustration to find suction.
Raaah, raah. Gulp. Success.
Bernie sucked greedily and stared intently at Beth Ann, her infant, frog-like eyes, protruding and blurry. Beth Ann kissed her small pink forehead, still peeling, and ran a gentle finger across the fine dark fuzz that couldn’t conceal the pulsing soft spot.
Then Beth Ann saw Carrie’s carefully formed round letters on a thick, manila legal-sized envelope lying conspicuously on the kitchen table.
I’m going crazy! I’ve got to get out of here.
I’m going back to Christian. Bernie will be fine with you.
I owe you one.
Caroline
Careful not to jostle Bernie, Beth Ann sat on a kitchen chair stunned.
No. She hadn’t. Even with postpartum depression, Carrie wouldn’t— Carrie couldn’t—
With one hand, Beth Ann opened the envelope and stared in disbelief at the quarter-inch stack of crisp, new hundred dollar bills. Back to Christian. Bernie suckled away, none the wiser, her seven pounds heavy against Beth Ann’s arm.
Yes, she had.
Her half sister had abandoned her baby.
CHAPTER ONE
Two years later
IN HER TWO-PIECE, yellow ducky pj’s, Bernie scuttled past Beth Ann with a toddler’s gleeful scream. The plastic no-slip on her feet slapped against the hardwood floor as she sought her ultimate destination—the out-of-doors, where the fog, thick with late spring chill, socked in the tiny one-story Victorian bungalow so badly Beth Ann couldn’t see the large gnarly oak tree twenty yards from the back door. Smothering the California Central Valley in a silent blanket of thick wet mist, the low ground Tule fog was almost comforting, protecting their home in blessed anonymity—anonymity that would be gone in one short hour, when Christian Elliott was supposed to arrive.
“Bernie.” Beth Ann tried to make her voice sound stern, but Bernie’s infectious
laughter caused her lips to twitch, as the toddler, on her tiptoes, successfully turned the knob on the back door only to be stopped by the locked screen. Beth Ann thought she could actually see the heat of the house along with the precious pennies needed to provide it being sucked out by the fog. However, in a scant two weeks, when the temperatures soared into the nineties, they’d be wishing for the chill the fog brought in.
Since Carrie’s death eighteen months ago, Beth Ann had talked with Carrie’s husband twice. Once at the funeral and once last week. She had only met him a single time before Carrie’s death, the day after she had flown down to San Diego nearly nine years ago with two purposes in mind—to meet the man Carrie had eloped with and to discuss their grandmother’s long-term care.
Surrounded by paperwork, barking terse orders into the phone, as his large hand swiftly signed documents, Christian Elliott gave her a rather obscure gray stare and a quick, surprised nod from his executive teak desk, before answering yet another phone line. Dressed in her comfy jeans and a San Jose Sharks T-shirt, Beth Ann felt like the dowdy country cousin in his opulent penthouse office, especially in relation to Carrie—called Caroline by everyone in her new life—who was carefully coiffed from her professional makeup to the precision cut of her raven dark hair. Her coordinated linen pant-suit merely acted as an elegant backdrop to her breathtaking, almost untouchable, beauty.
Rather than giving her new brother-in-law a hearty welcome to the family as she intended, Beth Ann was rendered speechless as she gawked at the spectacular floor-to-ceiling panoramic view of the San Diego harbor.
At lunch, Carrie seemed anxious for Beth Ann to be on her way, declaring halfway through Beth Ann’s pastrami sandwich at the corner deli that she absolutely could not miss her tennis lesson with Pierre. She promised they would get together later. After three days of touring San Diego by herself, Beth Ann took the hint and left.
At Carrie’s funeral, even though Christian had arranged for her, Grans and Bernie, who was just six months old at the time, a suite at his family’s five-star hotel as well as unlimited limousine service, he did not recognize Beth Ann until she introduced herself. Even then, with over five hundred mourners at the funeral patting him on the arm, it was easy for her and her small family to fade into the background. They didn’t blame him for his inattention. After all he had just lost his wife. She’d felt a tug of pity for the man, his too handsome face somber. He had everything the world could offer, but even that couldn’t shield him from the most tragic of losses.
Bernie squealed again, her intentions obvious, momentarily distracting Beth Ann from the oppressive thoughts of Christian’s terse phone call, where he more or less commanded her to be home because he would be in the area briefly on his way to Napa for an important business engagement. He needed to talk to her. Thank goodness, he didn’t plan on staying long. Bernie, her face pressed against the screen door, oblivious to the damp chill, contented herself with several loud flat-palmed pounds on the screen, laughing as her hand bounced back at her.
“Go garden,” Bernie declared with extraordinary enunciation and another big pat and squeal.
Beth Ann grimaced as a small rip in the side of the screen got larger. She quickly got up and closed the door, steering Bernie back into the kitchen.
“We can’t even see the garden. Maybe when the sun says hello, we’ll go. Besides it’s time for you to visit Mrs. Potty.”
“No!” Bernie protested automatically and then looked to Beth Ann as if her reaction would tell Bernie whether or not she, in her nearly two-year-old mind, really objected.
“Bernie.”
“No!” Bernie reinforced her position with a shout. “No want potty! No like Mrs. Potty.”
“You love Mrs. Potty,” Beth Ann reminded her gently. “Mrs. Potty is your friend. Remember every day you need to give Mrs. Potty your poop and pee.”
The phone rang.
With no warning and a playful growl, Beth Ann picked up the two-year-old, smothering Bernie’s fat cheeks and squirming neck rolls with kisses. Bernie screamed, giggled, but didn’t renew her objection as Beth Ann pulled down her pajama bottoms, stripped off the still clean diaper and plopped her on the potty before answering the phone on its fourth ring with a breathless, “Hello?”
Bernie made a move to get up, but Beth Ann gave her the evil eye and Bernie settled back down.
“Bethy.” A familiar, deep voice chuckled.
“Read me that,” Bernie commanded loudly, pointing like a queen to her pile of books next to the potty.
“Why don’t you read the book?” Beth Ann suggested. “You sit on the potty and read to Fluff while I talk to Pop-pop.” Beth Ann pushed Bernie’s favorite stuffed bear and a book into her outstretched arms.
“Fuffy!”
“Glenn.” Beth Ann breathed a sigh of relief as Bernie babbled behind her, instructing the ragged brown bear to listen carefully. “Am I glad to hear from you. You were supposed to be here by now.”
“Is he there yet?”
Beth Ann looked out the window, searching for an unfamiliar car, but the fog obliterated any view she could have of the driveway. “No. Not yet. Where are you?”
“Stuck on 101 by Morgan Hill. A big rig spilled something and they’re taking their sweet time cleaning it up.”
“Morgan Hill?” She tried not to sound disappointed. “It’ll take you at least an hour to get here.”
“At least,” Glenn agreed. “You going to be okay?”
“I suppose. I just have nothing to say to him.” Beth Ann tried to make her voice neutral, but noticed that her hands shook as she cleared away the breakfast dishes. She wiped a hot dishcloth over Bernie’s high chair and sighed as she stepped on a soggy Oatie-O. And then another. Cereal everywhere. It was a wonder Bernie got any sustenance at all. Beth Ann used her thumbnail to scrape a mashed oat round off the well-worn hardwood floor. “I’m just nuts. I can’t wait until he says his piece and then moves on. What could he want anyway? He didn’t even ask about Bernie. I don’t want to see him—”
“He’s your sister’s husband.”
“Was,” Beth Ann corrected, blinking back her tears. “And we know what kind of husband he was.”
“Actually, we don’t,” Glenn said reasonably. “We know only what Carrie wanted us to know. You have no idea whatsoever what kind of husband or what kind of man he is.”
“I’m not listening.” Beth Ann began to hum loudly.
“So are you about eleven now?” Glenn asked with exasperation. “Carrie wasn’t perfect.”
“But she shouldn’t be dead,” blurted out of her mouth before she could stop it.
She had waited a long time for Carrie to come back and get Bernie. After two weeks, she had called and was told by the maid that Carrie hadn’t yet returned home but was expected back in six weeks. Just six weeks, Beth Ann had told herself. During that turbulent time of adjustment, Beth Ann tried the best she could to meet her art obligations so her first show would open on time, strapping Bernie to her chest as she painted. To Bernie’s credit, she slept most of the time, seemingly comforted by the close proximity to Beth Ann. By the end of the six weeks, even though Beth Ann had not carried Bernie in her womb, she carried her in her heart. So much so, that Beth Ann secretly hoped Carrie would never return. Then, more weeks slipped by and they received the phone call from the Elliott’s family attorney.
There was a long silence. Glenn cleared his throat, his voice subdued. “Yes. You’re right. She shouldn’t be dead.”
“I know we weren’t close anymore, but I miss her—”
“I done,” Bernie announced, threw Fluff and the book onto the floor and stood up.
“Wait,” Beth Ann said more sharply than she intended, putting a restraining hand on Bernie’s shoulder and peering into the potty-chair bowl. “Just a minute, Glenn. Bernie, you’re done when there’s poop or pee in the potty.”
“I done,” Bernie repeated, her voice a hairs-breadth trigger from a tantrum.
“When there’s poop in the potty,” Beth Ann said firmly.
“No poop,” Bernie insisted in a plaintive whine.
“I think you do. You always have poop after breakfast. Can you make a poop for Mommy?” she cajoled, willing Bernie’s bowels to move in the potty rather than the diaper.
“Poop, poop, poop, poop, poop,” Bernie chanted.
Beth Ann could hear Glenn hold back a laugh. The sound of a bedroom door creaking made Beth Ann turn quickly. The bright ruffle of a pink petticoat caught the corner of her eye as it whizzed past the open entryway to the kitchen and down the hall. The front door opened and then banged shut.
“Oh, jeez! Grans! Stop!” Beth Ann called futilely and then spoke hurriedly to Glenn, “Iris just took off. Be careful when you get on this side of Pacheco Pass. We’re socked in.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Glenn assured her, his voice patient. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
Beth Ann wished she could believe him. She poked her head out the front door and craned her neck to see if she could spot Iris but the only thing she saw was opaque fog. For a woman a year from ninety, Iris could travel alarmingly fast, even in a pink petticoat with ruffles. It was no small consolation that their bungalow was surrounded on three sides by vast parcels of farmland belonging to the family dairy behind her. There were a thousand places for Iris to hide. The fog only created more of a problem.
“Come on, Bernie. Let’s go get Nana,” she said hurriedly. She peeked into the potty, relieved to find a small tinkle if no poop. “Good girl, Bernie. You tinkled in the potty.”
Beth Ann grabbed a wipe and attended to Bernie, refastening the disposable diaper around the toddler’s chubby legs, pulling up her pj’s, stuffing her arms into her winter coat with practiced speed. Setting the toddler on a hip, Beth Ann raced out of the house desperate to find some sign of Iris. She could be lost for hours in this fog, wearing only a petticoat. It was insane. Not insane, Beth Ann corrected herself, feeling a muscle strain in her right shoulder from Bernie’s weight. Touched.
