Duncan shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over an antique chair in the marble-floored foyer. The kitchen door at the end of the hallway popped open.
Dad walked out nibbling on a julienned carrot stick. “I’m glad you’re finally here. I’m starving.” He furrowed his dark brows, threaded with strands of gray, into an annoyed pose as he held up the carrot. “Your mother has me on a diet. All she’ll let me have before dinner are these damn things.”
“You look great, Dad. Not sure why she’s worried.”
As a child, Duncan thought his father slept in his three-piece suits. The fast-growing international law firm of Jamieson, McDonald & O’Reilly rarely allowed him time at home. Today he wore a heavy cardigan, filled out in the midsection, and casual slacks. His once-dark hair had turned mostly white and seemed more disheveled than usual.
His dad offered a hand to Duncan. The greeting somehow evolved into an awkward, back-patting hug. Duncan’s height and sturdy build had always been much like his dad’s. Today, however, Duncan towered over him and he took more care as he embraced the frail shell of his father’s once firm frame.
Duncan handed off a bottle of wine. “Sorry I’m late. You know how Friday night traffic is on the Saw Mill Parkway.”
Footsteps tapped on the wooden spiral staircase. His mother came down, each step carrying the sophisticated gait of an actress from a 1940s movie. Graying bronze hair touched her shoulders and bounced as she stepped down the last steps to the foyer, her willowy frame always graceful.
“Hello, dear.” She placed a distant peck on Duncan’s cheek and headed to the kitchen. “I’ll tell Annabelle we’re ready to eat.”
The next half hour dragged. They sat at the end of a formal mahogany table large enough to sit sixteen comfortably. The vacant chairs reminded Duncan how lonely he’d often felt in this spacious house. So many times during his childhood, he and his brother had stayed with the live-in help while his dad traveled for work and his mother was off on a philanthropic cause. Everybody in town knew if Norma Jamieson got involved in any charitable effort, it would get attention.
Between bites and casual conversation, his gaze drifted to the étagère. A family photo sat at eye-level, taken when he was in ninth grade and Trent a sophomore. His mother wore a chiffon gown and stood close to Trent, near the fountain in the lavish hotel where his cousin had thrown her wedding. Mom’s arm draped Trent’s shoulder. Duncan stood on her other side, leaning close but not quite touching. Both the gap and his posture summed up their relationship. His father stood on the other side of Trent, glancing to the side, barely engaged with the foursome. The snapshot might represent any day in their lives.
When their utensils scraping the plates filled the void in conversation, he lowered his fork. “I have some news.”
They both peered up with mild curiosity.
The pulse in his throat quickened. “I’m going to try to cut down on my work hours. Spend more time with the kids, enjoy life for a change. Between my executive assistant and Trent, I’ve got two strong hands to help at the firm.”
Dad grunted. “Good luck with your brother.”
His mother cast a silent reprimand in her husband’s direction, always Trent’s advocate, even though he was now a grown man.
Duncan sipped his merlot. Why hadn’t he simply slipped a note under the door to announce his move? He’d never get their approval. Never had. Since losing his wife, he’d vowed to treasure the things in life that really mattered. Family mattered. All the love he had for his children flooded his heart, somehow making his mother’s negative attitude less important.
He cleared his throat. “I’ve also decided to move out of Manhattan. To someplace quieter.”
His mother’s face brightened. “Oh? There’s a lovely house for sale about three streets away. We’d see more of Patrick and Casey.”
A jealous twinge nipped at Duncan’s heels. His mother had spent the better part of his childhood barely noticing him but now found time for her grandchildren. He swallowed the comment. “I meant quieter than Bronxville too. I’m moving my headquarters out of the city to Connecticut. Hartford, actually. I’ve also purchased a house in Northbridge to live in year-round, on Blue Moon Lake.”
Dad chewed slowly, but looked up from his plate. His cold gaze pierced Duncan, the age lines surrounding his eyes not wilting their power. He returned his attention to the food and cut another piece of roast beef.
Duncan met his mother’s judgmental gaze and raised his brows. “Hey, you’re the one who sent me there in the first place to buy the land for Trent.”
She stared at her plate, pushing the green beans around the fine china, but didn’t come to his defense.
Dad brought the loaded fork close to his mouth then stopped. “Move to Northbridge? I don’t even understand why you agreed with Trent’s idea to turn the land into a resort.” He cut an irritated glance to his wife. “Or your idea, Norma, to buy that land for Trent.”
“I told you, Frank. Trent’s therapist believes his substance abuse ties into feeling inadequate over being adopted into this family. Buying the land of his birth father is a perfect way to hand him a little piece of his past.” A dark flash crossed her face. “The purchase of Tate Farm doesn’t involve you because you wanted nothing to do with it.”
She always jumped to Trent’s rescue. Heck, so did Duncan. The only one who didn’t was his father. When Mom requested Dad look at the property for Trent, he’d immediately said no. She’d come straight to Duncan. She’d never asked him for help with anything so he said yes, with hopes they’d grow closer. He swept aside the past and his appetite went with it. His gesture for her praise hadn’t changed a thing.
Dad’s voice rose. “Still, why on earth would you move there, Duncan?” He popped the meat into his mouth and chewed.
Duncan’s soul cringed with each bite and, rather than answer, he stayed silent.
His father swallowed. “You have a beautiful townhouse in the city. A life. Friends.”
Mom nodded. “The business investment is one thing, but moving there?” Judgment covered every corner of her face. “I mean, with all due respect.”
The condescending phrase showed anything but respect and crawled under Duncan’s skin like a squirmy bug. He clamped his jaw tight.
“It’s a lovely place to visit.” Mom dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Will Patrick be happy living there?”
“He’s excited.” Duncan tried to sound upbeat, but their opinions, like raindrops on fresh snow, deteriorated his enthusiasm.
His father’s fork clanged as he dropped it on his plate. “In my opinion, it’s a huge mistake.”
Duncan’s forearms tensed. He’d heard these words from his dad before. When he’d announced attending law school was off the table and how the law firm his father founded didn’t suit his career path. Then again, on the night he’d taken them to dinner to share his plans to start his own property development firm.
“What would Elizabeth say?” His father’s glare demanded an answer. “She loved New York, the culture, the opportunities.”
Duncan’s gaze landed on the lace tablecloth. He lifted the fine stemware then took a slow sip of his wine. His last conversation with his wife, Elizabeth, was one of a few honest moments in their relationship. A comment of hers played in his head daily, like a ticker tape of life’s lessons, Start to appreciate the life around you, Duncan. Some day you might be sorry. I know you have a heart. Start to use it.
Those words had changed him.
Duncan put down his wineglass and stared at his dad. “I think she’d tell me to trust my heart.” He waited a long beat then turned to his mother. “Mom, would you pass me the bread?”
She glanced at her husband but did as requested. They resumed eating. After a long silence, she started to chat about the latest gossip at their country club involving a longstanding member of her tennis group who’d come out of the closet. While Duncan buttered his roll, he loo
ked across the table. The old man watched him, his square jaw set in firm dissatisfaction. As a kid, Duncan would’ve cowered. This time he didn’t blink until his father finally looked away.
Chapter 5
Sophie glanced at the display on her ringing cell phone and pulled off Lake Shore Road near an empty field, where morning frost glistened from the sun. “Hi, Dad. Everything okay?”
She’d taken him to brunch over the weekend since he’d missed the hearing and insisted upon a face-to-face discussion about every last detail. This Monday morning call was out of character.
“All this technology sure takes the mystery out of life.”
“It sure does. Anything wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong.” His annoyance carried through the phone. “Why?”
Ever since that horrible morning a year ago, when he’d called her at five AM saying he felt dizzy, cold, and clammy, unexpected calls from him were always met with an overreaction. Everyone in town knew Alan Moore as a sturdy, barrel-chested seventy-five year old who had never been sick a day in his life, at least until that day. She’d told him to call 9-1-1 and, thank God, he’d listened. The doctors found the blockage causing the problem and installed a stent.
She sighed. “You know why. Can’t a daughter worry about her father?”
“Yes, but I’m fine now, honey. I forgot to ask you on Saturday if Matt could help out at the shop on weekends during the holiday season. You know how traffic picks up between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Jay decided it would be a good time to have a sale on our kayak inventory.”
Dad talked in detail about her brother’s plans for the boat sale but she stopped listening. From where she’d pulled over, she viewed the hillside where Tate Farms grew their grapes. The leafy green vines of the summer were gone. Instead, the trellis system, made of strong wooden end posts connected by a wired line in each row, sat vacant amidst scraggly, dried vines. Across the road, the cold waters of Blue Moon Lake shivered with a gentle breeze.
Her dad’s silence made her return to the conversation. “Sure, Dad. I’ll have Matt call you later today. Listen, I’m running late for work. Can I call you later tonight? From home?”
“Sure, sure. Bye.”
She tossed the phone into her purse but didn’t drive off right away. To the far right of the hilly fields, sat the old farmhouse where the Tates lived. In her childhood, they’d come here early June each year to pick strawberries in the produce fields on the flat land behind one of the property’s three barns. Far beyond the barn near the woods stood the cemetery of her ancestors, with tombstones dating back to the seventeen and eighteen hundreds.
Back in the late seventies, word got out that Ehren Tate, father to the current owners, might start wine production on his land. The governor had just lifted the ban on commercial wine production in the state, established during Prohibition. Up until then, the Tates sold their grapes to other wine producers out of state. That first summer, the new winemaker hired Sophie’s brother to work the fields. Jay loved the job and talked about nothing else. A few years later, the summer she’d graduated from high school, she got a job in their newly opened tasting room. Being an insider to the nuances and secrets of each bottled creation made her feel like a part of something bigger than their small town. Several years after Ehren died, wine production had ceased but they still grew and sold grapes to other winemakers.
Sophie’s gaze drifted across the street to where the Tates’ land extended to the water’s edge. A gentle ache rolled against her chest as she examined the memorial garden planted for her son, the summer flowers gone but evergreens still giving some color. Over the years, her trips to the garden had brought her a strange measure of peace. Sometimes she pruned the flowers or weeded the area, a way to still care for Henry. Many times, she simply sat nearby on Putticaw Rock, a local landmark named after a shortened version of the lake’s original Indian name. What would happen to the only thing left of her son if RGI’s bid went through? Would they destroy this garden?
She swallowed the hard lump in her throat, threw the car into drive, and her tires spun on the roadside dirt as she pulled away. Nope. She wasn’t done with this land and it wasn’t done with her, either.
* * * *
“Morning, Gabby.” Thirty minutes later, after a quick stop to get breakfast to go, Sophie pulled the drawer open on her old steel desk and dropped her purse inside.
“Hey there, Soph.” Gabby beamed bright. Her short pixie-cut, petite height, and need to bring homemade cookies to the office at least once a week had earned her a nickname as their honorary Keebler elf.
Sophie threw a pod of French vanilla into the coffeemaker. “I’m so sorry to hear about your dad’s stroke. How is he?”
Her chin buckled with a frown. “We’ve got him in a nursing home. Time will tell.”
“Cliff thought you’d be out until Wednesday. I’m surprised to see you here today.”
“I needed a break from the nursing home. My brother flew up from Florida and said he’d stay a week or two.”
“If you need help with anything, let me know. When you’re ready, I’ll fill you in on what happened at the hearing. Boy, you sure missed a good one. It’s your story whenever you want to take it back.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Gabby smiled, more gently than usual.
Sophie started her computer and opened the foil wrap of a warm breakfast sandwich she’d picked up at Sunny Side Up. The computer’s motor whirled to life and she went to her e-mail, opening one marked “urgent” sent from Cliff an hour earlier.
Will Steiner wants us to interview Duncan Jamieson. Let’s talk asap.
Will Steiner? Her shoulders tensed. There wasn’t an ounce of love lost when it came to the man who ran their parent company.
Sophie blew out a breath and her tenseness relaxed. What was she doing? A few short days ago, she’d begged Cliff to give her the story. Even though he’d think she was fickle, the time had come to tell Cliff what had happened at the kayaks. It might be in the best interest of all parties for her to step aside. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d just given up on anything, though. The idea gnawed at her, carrying the sour aftertaste of losing a well-played game.
She gulped a swig of coffee and stood. “This should be good.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
Sophie snorted. “Guess again. The powers from above are dictating what we report on.”
“Above meaning God or good ol’ Willy-boy?” Gabby chuckled. “May as well make the best of it. I think he’s here to stay.”
“Who? God?”
“Him too.” Gabby grinned. Sophie marveled at how her coworker stayed so positive, even with the stress in her personal life.
Sophie marched up the stairs. At Cliff’s office, she leaned on the doorjamb and crossed her arms. “Got your e-mail.”
He sat at his desk editing a document squared in front of him. With one swift movement, he dropped the pen and tipped his glasses to the top of his head. “Good. You’re here. Have a seat.”
She plunked into the chair across from him and pushed up the sleeves of her cardigan, staring at an autographed Larry Bird poster from the early years and a framed Super Bowl XXXI program on the wall behind Cliff. Besides sports, fishing was the only thing to draw him away from his desk.
“I can’t stand editing these reader submissions for Eye Around Town.” Cliff’s face reddened, matching the fire engine color in his plaid shirt. “They get worse and worse. How can we let the public give us news? Half this stuff probably isn’t even true. Why doesn’t a smart guy like Will realize you get what you pay for?”
“Because he knows anybody who has two index fingers and a computer can give us free content.” She grabbed a lone paper clip off the edge of the desk and unbent the curved metal. “That dumb column is right up his penny-pinching alley. If he gets enough free material from them, I’m the one who’ll be out of a job, not you.”
Cliff
frowned. “You’re supposed to calm me down, not get me madder.”
“That’s Gabby’s job.” She tossed the ruined clip into a nearby can. “Why is Will in a big hurry to get a story about Jamieson?”
“Because Jamieson’s a rich guy moving to a small town. A town where he’s making a huge financial investment. I hate to say this, but it’s not a bad idea.”
“Don’t you think a busy guy like Will calling on such a trivial matter is odd?”
“Normally I’d say yes, but he’s friends with Jamieson.”
Sophie slapped a palm on the desk. “Did you know RGI is pulling strings at the Courant too?”
Cliff shrugged. “There’s politics everywhere.”
Annoyed by the way Cliff had returned to his levelheaded self, she stifled the rest of her rant.
He picked up the pen. “Oh yeah. Will said to give the developer some good press. I told him we’d do our best.”
Sophie bit the inside of her cheek. A quiet rebellion raised havoc inside her. Had journalism changed since she attended college? Who? What? When? Where? Why? How? So What? Keep it simple. Ensure the story remained fair and balanced. These days, everywhere she turned the lines between journalism and opinion blurred.
“You might have explained to Will the difference between reporting and editorializing.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I’d like to keep my job until retirement.” The bags under Cliff’s lower lids suggested a tough night’s sleep and he didn’t appear in the mood to have this conversation. “Approach this the way you do every other interview. See how it falls out. Who knows?” He smirked. “Maybe you’ll end up loving the guy.”
Will’s demands sapped her energy. Maybe it was a sign she should give this up before she compromised her journalist ethics in a whole other way, to suit the needs of someone above her.
Besides, a whole sidebar of issues prevailed. The way she peeled out of the parking lot after telling Duncan off was rude and ladies’ night conversation had confirmed the indictments she’d thrown in his face were untrue. Worse than anything, her imaginary flirting accusation still left her with the embarrassment of an escaped burp.
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