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Mr. Elliott Finds a Family

Page 6

by Susan Floyd


  She stared at her old friend, feeling his empathy emanate toward her. They had been comrades for too many years for her to hide anything from him. She had met both Glenn and Fred in graduate school, the three of them quickly befriending each other, eventually sharing a three-bedroom house. Iris had expressed concern about her granddaughter living with two men, but Beth Ann had assured her they were just friends. Besides, Fred was gay and Glenn had a girlfriend. When Iris met the two for the first time, Beth Ann had been relieved when Iris squeezed her hand, approving the friendship.

  Their relationship didn’t end with graduation. When she moved back to California, she was pleasantly surprised to find that within a few months, both Fred and Glenn had found a place together in San Jose. After they’d popped the champagne for their housewarming, the two men had exchanged glances with each other and gently told her they were intimately involved.

  Beth Ann had been stunned only because she’d had no idea that Glenn was gay. Once she’d closed her mouth, she’d hugged them both fiercely, her blessing genuine. Her unreserved joy for them had only deepened their friendship, especially after Glenn’s family had reacted terribly to his announcement. Fred, originally from the Midwest, had long established a cordial if not enthusiastic relationship with his parents, exchanging cards at birthdays and Christmas but not much else. However, after their commitment ceremony, Fred’s mother had started sending Glenn birthday cards as well.

  Just friends. Beth Ann shook her head. No, just family.

  Conventional or not, Glenn and Fred were as much her family as Bernie and Iris. They’d turned the attic into her studio. They’d stood by her side when Carrie abandoned Bernie. They’d come at anytime of the day or night, driving the hour and a half to baby- and grandmother-sit when Beth Ann couldn’t stand it anymore. They were present for every important event in her life—from the rise and fall of her short art career to the death of her sister to Bernie’s first steps to the mental decline of her grandmother.

  But she remained silent, feeling like she wanted to be a color. If she were that perfect French ultramarine blue, she wouldn’t have to think about Carrie or Carrie’s husband or his reasons for being in Mercy Springs.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BETH ANN FINALLY looked back at Glenn, who waited patiently for her to answer, one ear cocked for any sounds of disturbance downstairs.

  “I can’t imagine why Carrie’s husband is here,” she said slowly.

  “Really?” Glenn’s speculative look made her turn her back to him, knowing he could read her like a book.

  She shook her head and then guilt pulsated in her stomach. She didn’t want to lie to her dearest friend. She concentrated on rewashing her unused paintbrushes and then said, “He might have mentioned something about Bernie owning a software company, but that didn’t seem to be the reason he’s here. He damn near ran Iris down.”

  “He said something about what?” Glenn asked, his voice incredulous.

  “A software company,” Beth Ann whispered with a grimace.

  “A software company?”

  “Yeah, uh, one called DirectTech.”

  Glenn was silent for so long that Beth Ann looked up. His handsome, dear face was extraordinarily pensive.

  Eventually he said slowly, “That’s not good, is it?”

  Beth Ann blinked back tears that had somehow filled her eyes. It was that damned headache. “It can’t be good.”

  “Does he want Bernie?”

  Beth Ann shrugged and then turned the water on full blast, scrubbing her wash brush. “He can’t have her. I’m going to tell him what he can do with his software company.”

  “He didn’t seem particularly interested in her.”

  “Do you think he knows?”

  Glenn thought for a minute before saying, “I don’t think he does. And if he doesn’t, you probably should tell him.”

  “Are you nuts?” Beth Ann whirled around, spraying Glenn with residual water. She promptly burst into tears, the thought of exposing Bernie to Christian sending terrible waves of dread down her back. What if he wanted her? She’d never be able to fight him in court. With his money, his clout, he’d cream her. Then another thought swept through her. What if he didn’t want Bernie? What if Bernie was no more important to him than she was to Carrie? Once the papers were signed, Bernie would be forever tied to the Elliotts, but only as some sort of awkward addendum.

  Glenn swiftly crossed the room and enveloped her in a warm hug. Beth Ann buried her face in his chest, feeling as if Glenn’s comforting squeeze was the only thing keeping her from exploding into tiny pieces of emotional debris. Glenn was indeed a good friend.

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you need to tell him, Bethy,” Glenn whispered. “He’s got to know. Tell him now while you’ve got nothing to lose.”

  Beth Ann pulled away and sniffed loudly. “I have everything to lose. I could lose Bernie.”

  “You might,” Glenn admitted frankly. “But, you’ll lose her anyway when he finds out. And he will find out. He’s on some kind of mission and I’m not even sure he knows exactly what it is. He doesn’t know who Bernie is, but I saw him stare at her. I’m sure he sees the resemblance to Carrie.”

  “We’re sisters.”

  “Half sisters. You two don’t even look alike. Carrie was the spitting image of her father.”

  Beth Ann gave Glenn an annoyed stare. “I hate it when you play Jiminy Cricket.”

  Glenn laughed. “That’s why I’m here.” He glanced at the work that appeared to be drying around the studio. Beth Ann bit her lip as she watched him examine the painting, not realizing she was holding her breath. Glenn was an enormously talented and highly productive muralist, who traveled the globe painting both interior and exterior walls. So talented and so sought after, he was booked several years in advance. Unless he developed some artist’s block, his next ten years would be filled with interesting projects, different places. But Beth Ann couldn’t be jealous of his success. He deserved it.

  Glenn studied the backdrop of a grove of newly pruned almond trees. “I like that.”

  “Party Girls.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to call that Party Girls,” Beth Ann ad-libbed, feeling like the biggest fraud of the century. “Don’t they look as if they’re dressing in their pink blossoms, as if they’re going to an afternoon cotillion or something?”

  “Nice.”

  “Too much burnt sienna?”

  Glenn studied it. “No. Shades that hillside, nicely. Good job with the light.” He looked closer. “Though you might want to play with the value on the right. Seems too dark, you need something else sort of dancing back there.”

  Beth Ann peered with him, then nodded her agreement. “I see what you mean.”

  “But very nice. I like the direction you’re taking.”

  Beth Ann frowned in concentration, staring at her palette of colors.

  “The photo came out a little dark and I haven’t found a way to lighten the whole scene.” It was amazing how she could sound as if she had just painted that yesterday, rather than over a year ago.

  “Did you hear from the hotel about the show?”

  Beth Ann felt her cheeks burn as she lied to her good friend. “No, not yet.” She just couldn’t admit to Glenn that she was afraid to open the envelope. Glenn had no experience with not painting, hating painting, having painting torture his very soul. Glenn always painted so he never lost the ability.

  “Funny.” Glenn shot her a quick glance. “Fred said they’d told him they mailed out the results last week. Should’ve arrived by now.”

  “Maybe this week,” Beth Ann replied, annoyed that her voice was so chirpy.

  “So Carrie’s husband only came to deliver the news that Bernie inherited DirectTech?”

  Beth Ann shrugged. “That’s what he said.”

  “Nothing else?”

  She shook her head and took a deep breath. “No.”

  “And are you goin
g to tell him about Bernie?”

  Beth Ann gave him a look and her chin started to quiver.

  “You’ve got to tell him.”

  “Well, I’m not going to be dishonest—if he asks me straight out,” Beth Ann said, placating herself. “However, if the topic doesn’t come up, why in the world would I want to tell him? It can’t be for anyone’s good—”

  “Least of all yours,” Glenn inserted.

  “She’s mine,” Beth Ann said stubbornly. “In two months the adoption will be finalized and she’ll be mine.”

  “But if he’s the father—”

  “He’s not the father,” Beth Ann interrupted. “If he were, wouldn’t Carrie just have told him?”

  “She never told you who the father was,” Glenn said. “Maybe she simply didn’t want to have any kids.”

  “Then she should’ve had an abortion.”

  There was a stunned silence between them.

  “You don’t mean that, Bethy,” Glenn said with reproof.

  Beth Ann had the grace to look abashed and replied, “You’re right, I don’t.” She then said fiercely, “Bernie is mine. What Christian Elliott doesn’t know, won’t hurt him.” She wiped her hands on her jeans. “I’ve got to change.”

  ON THE WAY TO Los Amigos, Beth Ann felt terrible. She hated squabbling with Glenn. He and Fred were the kind of friends who took it upon themselves to be like annoying older brothers—never letting well enough alone. If she had answered that lawyer and claimed DirectTech for Bernie, then Christian Elliott wouldn’t be sitting at Los Amigos, waiting for her, wanting something from her she didn’t know she could give him.

  She glanced at her watch. She’d be a few minutes late. And her eyes were red. One look at her and he’d know she’d been crying. When she got out of the car, she saw with dismay that he was waiting for her. His back was toward her as he faced the horizon, his hands shoved into his pockets, a bouquet of flowers tucked under one arm. But he wasn’t impatient, which surprised her. Rather than checking his watch every few seconds, he actually seemed to be enjoying the coolness of the evening, gazing at the sky as if he needed to see every last remnant of color fade.

  Deliberately, she slowed her walk, just to give him a moment to absorb the changing light and color, offering him plenty of space to immerse himself in the wonder of the night sky, the brightness of the stars that appeared from nowhere. He looked oddly alone, almost sad, standing there in his tailored clothes, his figure darkened by the onset of night. Beth Ann shook herself. Christian Elliott had access to one of the most spectacular evening views in California. His office overlooked the San Diego harbor, after all. What made her think he never really saw the stars?

  “Hello,” she called.

  When he turned, her heart beat harder, apparently not understanding this wasn’t that kind of dinner. But, Lord, he was handsome. His face was perfectly proportioned, sharpened by the austere demeanor that seemed to be second nature. Her eyes were drawn to the most vulnerable part of his face, the curve of his bottom lip, held rigid even though he appeared relaxed. She felt her cheeks grow hot when she realized she was staring, fantasizing almost, about whether the tight lines of his lips would soften under a kiss. She shifted her eyes to the rest of him. He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn that morning, but it looked as if he’d had them pressed.

  “Hi,” he said and opened the door to the small restaurant for her.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she began.

  He dismissed her apology. “It doesn’t look like there’s going to be a big crowd.”

  “Well, it’s Tuesday,” she said in explanation.

  He nodded, then, remembering the roses, thrust them at her.

  “For you.”

  This was awkward. She told her heart to slow down as she accepted the beautiful apricot and pink bouquet. They weren’t for her. They were just a means to get her signature so he could close this chapter of his life.

  “Well, thank you,” she said and sniffed. “Did you have any problems finding the place?”

  “No. I passed it on the way back to the hotel. I just remembered that it was close to the propane store.”

  “That’s Mercy Springs.” Beth Ann chuckled, surprised when he helped her off with her coat and then pulled her seat out for her. “Thank you.”

  She watched him as he carefully pushed her chair in and then draped her coat over the unoccupied seat.

  It was an odd sensation being out. It was an even odder sensation being out with a person who had such manners. Well-bred manners. She just wished the occasion was real, that she was out on a real date with a man who looked like Christian and who wasn’t her dead sister’s husband. She felt a pulse in the base of her throat throb and squelched the niggle of anticipation. It irritated her that this acute, uncomfortable awareness had decided to rear its dormant head right now.

  “Hey, there, Beth Ann. How’s it going?” The waitress came up and handed them well-used menus.

  “Hey, Claudia. The same old, same old,” Beth Ann replied, welcoming the distraction.

  “Who’s your friend here?” Claudia gave Christian a speculative glance, then saw the flowers and grinned broadly.

  Beth Ann blushed.

  “Christian Elliott, Claudia Ramirez. Claudia, Christian. Claudia’s family has run the Los Amigos for two generations.”

  “Ricky’ll be the third,” Claudia said proudly.

  “Ricky’s Claudia’s son. How old is he now?”

  “Nearly seventeen.”

  Beth Ann shook her head, tsk tsking. “Time flies, doesn’t it?” She turned to Christian. “We went to school together.”

  “Mercy Springs High.”

  “Go Gophers,” they said in unison before Claudia asked, “You guys know what you want?”

  “Give us a minute.”

  “Sure thing. It was nice meeting you.” Claudia gave Christian a quick wink and walked away.

  They lapsed into silence as they studied the menus.

  “What’s good?” Christian asked.

  “Depends on what you want,” Beth Ann replied, trying very hard not to look at him, not to feel drawn to him. “If you like fried food, they make excellent chimichangas. The enchiladas are good. The burritos are huge.”

  “Caroline hated fried food.”

  “Carrie had a thing about getting fat,” Beth Ann corrected him. “She loved fried food.”

  Christian fixed his silver gaze on her, and she felt a flush creep up her neck. Then he asked quietly, “How do you know?”

  “She was my sister.”

  “She was my wife.”

  “Are you ready to order?” a just-returning Claudia asked with a chirp in her voice.

  After ordering, the silence continued. Christian stared at the paper-lace placemat, attempting to control the emotions churning through him. He didn’t have much experience with people like his sister-in-law, but he still couldn’t figure out where her animosity came from. Surely, she didn’t think he was responsible for the fact that Caroline had never visited? An even more pressing question gnawed at him.

  Why had Caroline left DirectTech to her niece in the first place?

  It wasn’t as if Caroline had really been interested in the company. She sat on the board but never attended the meetings. She simply collected the dividends. By the end, he wasn’t sure Caroline was aware she owned anything. Her financial needs were so great he’d had to channel several other funding sources into her account.

  “I’m here,” Beth Ann reminded him.

  Christian looked up, his eyes falling on the top of her curls, reminding him again how short Caroline’s sister was. It took Christian a split second to figure out she was teasing him, an irreverence he found very attractive, almost comforting. As they waited for their order, Beth Ann nursed an unseasonal melon margarita. After a few minutes, Christian realized she wasn’t going to initiate the conversation. She glanced at him and then looked intently at the table. So different from Caroline’s
almost nonstop chatter. The same thing that had stirred inside him earlier—when she’d been torn between Bernie and Iris—stirred again. He cleared his throat and searched for a neutral topic.

  “So how old is Bernadette?” he ventured, and wondered at the guarded look that came into her eyes.

  Beth Ann answered carefully, “Twenty-three months. She’ll be two in June.”

  “Is it normal to be potty training this early?”

  Beth Ann shrugged. “It’s less about age and more about readiness. She started showing signs she was ready about six weeks ago, so I decided to try it. We take it easy. I still let her wear a diaper most of the time. I just put her on the potty in the mornings and after meals when I know she usually has something to do.”

  “She’s quite a character.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  Another silence fell and lengthened until Claudia came back with steaming plates of food. Christian eyed what Claudia set before Beth Ann. She’d ordered the special combo, which consisted of a taco, chicken enchilada, beef tamale with rice, beans and salad. He doubted he could eat that much. And while he wasn’t consciously comparing Beth Ann to Caroline, he couldn’t imagine that Caroline would have even attempted such a meal. His plate looked anemic in comparison, even though he had ordered a burrito grande.

  He stared at his dinner and then looked around in puzzlement, wishing he had ordered something that could be eaten more conventionally. How did one eat a dish that resembled a small torpedo?

  “It doesn’t matter,” Beth Ann said in a conspiratorial whisper.

  “What?”

  “It doesn’t matter how you eat it. You can either pick it up or cut it with your fork or knife. Anyway, nobody cares.”

  Christian glanced around him again. She was absolutely right. No one did care. No one was staring at him, trying to figure out which wine he’d decided to drink, what he’d ordered. Around him were a half a dozen family groups, and not one person was even looking at him, except a small baby who had no choice because of the way she was propped up on her mother’s shoulder. She belched loudly and then gurgled.

 

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