How was it that Flynn could be so frustratingly obstructive while making the whole thing sound like a compliment?
“Daisy is here,” Belle said. “And she wants him back. It’s as if she thinks she can just discard people, and then with a snap of her fingers, make them come back. Am I supposed to just step aside for her? Keep quiet, the same way I did in college?”
Flynn shifted on the couch, turning toward her. “You’re supposed to let him figure out what he really wants. If you care about him, you’ll want what’s best for him.”
His words felt like a jab—an undeserved one. He was trying to manipulate her into giving up.
“Maybe I am what’s best for him.” She laid her sketchbook down on the coffee table. “I’ve changed my mind about breakfast. I’m hungry after all.” She was not only going to talk to Marco, she was going to get his phone number so she was sure she could talk to him later.
*
As soon as Belle and Flynn walked into the suite, Belle went over to Marco. “I don’t have a picture of you and Flynn together.” She held up her phone, turning it to the camera function. “Can you stand next to him?”
Marco willingly complied, flinging an arm around Flynn’s shoulder and grinning. Flynn’s smile looked forced and tinged with suspicion. He knew she had ulterior motives. Didn’t matter. He couldn’t stop her.
Belle snapped a picture then handed her phone to Marco. “Here. Give me your number so I can text it to you.”
Flynn reached for her phone. “He’s already got lots of pictures of us together.”
But it was too late. Marco had already begun tapping in his number. Flynn glared at Belle. She smiled sweetly at him. Point in her favor.
That moment turned out to be the only time she got to talk to Marco during breakfast. He went back to flipping pancakes on a large electric griddle, while Daisy cooked eggs and bacon on another griddle beside him. After Belle and Flynn got their food, Mrs. Dawson called her over to sit in an empty chair at the table. Almost as soon as she sat down, Mrs. Dawson proclaimed that the room was too noisy.
“Let’s go talk on the balcony. It’ll be quieter out there.”
Uh-oh. Apparently it was Belle’s turn to be lectured. She looked at Flynn, but he offered no support, just gave her a you-got-yourself-into-this-one look.
Carrying her plate, Belle followed Mrs. Dawson to the balcony. With every step, she resisted the urge to hang her head like a scolded school girl. Two seats overlooked one of the hotel pools and the ocean beyond it. Mrs. Dawson took one chair. Belle sat in the other.
Mrs. Dawson made small talk for a minute, then at the first lull in the conversation, said, “Daisy hasn’t been herself since she got here. Her sister’s health isn’t good. I’m afraid she’s feeling the strain.”
Belle couldn’t muster much pity for Daisy. She’d caused every bit of the strain she’d been under. “I’m sorry to hear it,” she said.
“I’m sure the stress was responsible for the way she snapped at you last night. She’s usually such a friendly person. But then, I suppose you already know that, seeing as the two of you were roommates.”
“She was always very outgoing,” Belle said vaguely.
Mrs. Dawson took a drink of juice, her eyes appraising Belle as though they were looking into her soul. Flynn had apparently inherited his penetrating gaze from her. “Such a shame when friends have a falling out.”
“Sometimes it can’t be helped,” Belle said.
“Oh, but sometimes it must be helped.” Mrs. Dawson sighed, and her eyes looked sad, pleading. “Surely you and Daisy can work out your differences for Flynn’s and Marco’s sakes.”
How could Belle respond to that? Yet she had to say something. “I’ll try.”
“Good.” Mrs. Dawson relaxed into her chair. “I might be able to help if I knew what pulled you apart in the first place.”
Belle couldn’t tell the truth, couldn’t admit she’d been in love with Marco first. She settled on the facts everyone already knew. “I missed her wedding, and then she missed my birthday lunch. I really should have been more forgiving. Missing a wedding is a much bigger deal.”
Mrs. Dawson took another sip of juice. “Often the reason friends drift apart has more to do with feelings than external circumstances.”
“What do you mean?” Belle knew full well what Mrs. Dawson meant. She was giving herself time to think. She glanced back through the sliding glass doors as though they might provide her with a way out of this conversation. Was there anyone who might come out and interrupt? But no. Everyone was chatting happily inside. They all knew better than to interrupt the matriarch when she lecturing someone.
“I remember Daisy talking about both events,” Mrs. Dawson said. “She was very upset. Blamed herself, although I never saw why.”
Daisy had blamed herself? Had she realized how badly she’d hurt Belle in college. Had she understood that by dating Marco she’d ruined their friendship?
Mrs. Dawson pushed her eggs around on her plate, not eating them. “At first I thought you must be one of those prima donna types who demand attention and resented anyone else having their share of it.” She shook her head, dismissing the idea. “I’m a good judge of character. And now that I’ve met you, I know you’re not like that. So I’m left to wonder if Daisy’s guilt was somehow founded.”
Belle took a bite of eggs so she didn’t have to answer right away. After swallowing, she shrugged. “It was all so long ago. I don’t really remember the details.”
“You and Daisy both remember. That was evident last night. Daisy was the one who came unglued, but your less-than-warm reception of her spoke volumes as well.” Mrs. Dawson reached across the table toward Belle. “Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, but I like you, and I want you to feel welcomed by this family. I don’t want a rift to develop between Marco and Flynn.”
Self-reproach stabbed at Belle. Mrs. Dawson was being so nice, and was so concerned about her, but none of it was warranted. She wasn’t even dating Flynn, and if by some wild chance she did become part of this family, it wouldn’t be in the way Mrs. Dawson imagined—or would approve of.
Belle cleared her throat. “You don’t need to worry about a rift. Flynn loves Marco too much to let that happen. In fact, you wouldn’t believe the lengths Flynn will go to just to protect Marco.”
Mrs. Dawson nibbled at her toast. “That’s always been the case, whether Marco wanted his help or not.” A few toast crumbs tumbled to her lap. She brushed them away. “Do you want to know what Daisy said was at the core of the problem?”
Belle nearly choked on a mouthful of eggs. Had Daisy told her the truth? No, she couldn’t have, or Mrs. Dawson wouldn’t have assumed that Belle might marry Flynn one day.
“Sure. What did she say?” If Daisy had come up with a fake reason for their animosity, Belle should know what it was. Then she could tell her side of whatever scenario Daisy had made up.
“Now, I’m not saying that what Daisy told me was the truth,” Mrs. Dawson emphasized. “I’m only saying it’s her truth, how she sees the situation. She said you came from a poor family, a broken home. Back in college, she didn’t care about that. She thought you were an amazing person to have overcome so much. However, she also thought you were jealous of her life. Whenever she tried to help you—give advice, share food, pass along old clothes—your resentment grew. She believed that she couldn’t win. She felt like you didn’t want her to be happy.” Mrs. Dawson folded her hands in her lap. “That’s why she thinks you didn’t go to her wedding.”
Belle’s mouth dropped open. Not because Daisy had lied, but because she’d actually told the truth. While Daisy had never said those things to Belle, as the words were out of Mrs. Dawson’s mouth, Belle knew that they perfectly described how Daisy had seen their relationship.
How convenient that Daisy remembered all of the times she’d tried to help Belle while forgetting the one significant time she’d betrayed her. But maybe her lack of memory was partial
ly Belle’s fault. After Marco and Daisy grew serious, Belle had downplayed her feelings. She pretended to be over him. Maybe Daisy really didn’t understand why Belle found it impossible to attend to the wedding.
“Now,” Mrs. Dawson said gently, “what’s your truth?”
Belle swallowed uncomfortably. She still couldn’t tell her truth to Mrs. Dawson. Couldn’t admit to having feelings for Marco back then. Voicing those truths would draw attention to Belle’s feelings for him now. Mrs. Dawson would begin to wonder, and she’d eventually puzzle it out.
“I suppose I was jealous of Daisy,” Belle admitted slowly.
Not a lie, and not only because of Marco. Any normal girl would have envied beautiful, outgoing, popular, Daisy. No one would have thought of her as one of those awful mean girls who got their comeuppance in life when their looks faded. She’d always been nice to everyone.
“Daisy’s wrong to think I didn’t want her to be happy. I did.”
Mrs. Dawson waited for Belle to say more, but she couldn’t. Her truth was much briefer than Daisy’s.
“Do you want her to be happy now?” Mrs. Dawson asked.
That would have been easier to answer if Mrs. Dawson hadn’t reminded Belle of how Daisy had given her clothes and shared her food.
“Yes,” she finally said. “I do want her to be happy.” Just not at her expense.
Mrs. Dawson let out a relieved breath, reached over and patted Belle’s knee. “Good. I’m glad to hear that.”
Belle hoped the conversation would turn to lighter topics. Instead Mrs. Dawson asked about her childhood, gently probing at the topic through the rest of breakfast like a counselor would—not to gasp at the awfulness of it, but to understand how Belle had healed and to see if more healing was needed.
Belle had spoken of her family in only a perfunctory way last night, giving the polite details and skimming over the rest. She didn’t have the energy to field off Mrs. Dawson’s questions now. Those emotional reserves had been depleted by withholding information about Marco. Her childhood spilled out with embarrassing ease. A white-trash confessional, complete with a father who skipped out on his family and an embarrassing alcoholic mother.
“Did people know about your mother’s problem?” Mrs. Dawson asked, as though someone should have stepped in and put a stop to it.
“Everyone knew. She made sure of that.”
“She told people?”
Showed. Not told. “During one of my brother’s junior high basketball games, she got in a fight with another parent and threw a beer in his face. The cops handcuffed her in front of everybody and hauled her off for a night in jail to sober up. So yeah, after that, the cat was pretty much out of the bag.”
“And no one did anything?”
“That time they did. My brother and I spent the night in foster care. Mom was banned from all future school events, and she promised CPS she’d get to get her act together. She did for a few months, but her reforms never lasted long. So my brother and I just got better at hiding the evidence.”
“What about extended family? Didn’t they do anything to help?”
Belle pushed the last of her eggs around her plate. “It was probably easier for them to ignore the problem by telling themselves we were fine.”
Mrs. Dawson shook her head unable to believe people would act that way. “That’s disgraceful.”
“Not every family is like yours. We never had a reunion. I wouldn’t know my cousins if I ran into them on the street.”
“If your grandparents loved you, they should have at least checked on you. Do they know what you went through?” She clearly expected Belle’s grandparents to be racked with remorse because of their neglect. More proof that Mrs. Dawson herself had always had a good family.
“I haven’t spoken to them since I was little. If I didn’t matter to them when I was young and actually needed them, I certainly don’t matter to them now.”
Mrs. Dawson put her hand to her chest and made a wounded sound. “Hearing that breaks my heart.”
Belle had revealed too much. She should have stuck to the polite facts, the ones that didn’t upset people. “My brother and I are both doing well now.”
“I’m glad for that, but your grandparents really should have done something to help. They should have cared about what happened to you.” Her hand still lay across her chest, her eyes weighed down with worry. “I wonder if my grandchildren will ever think they didn’t matter to me because I stopped having treatments.”
“Of course not,” Belle said. She hadn’t meant for the conversation to shift in this direction. She wasn’t supposed to say or do anything that upset Mrs. Dawson. “Your situation is different. And they all know you love them.”
“I’ve been telling myself that they’ll be fine. Every day I say those words—the same ones your relatives likely told themselves.”
“But it’s not the same. Your children aren’t alcoholics.”
“They could have other problems though. Sickness, job loss, divorce, death. . .”
Before she could catalog the ills of the world, Flynn slid open the glass door. “Are you finished with breakfast?” He stepped outside and did a double take at his mother’s expression. “What’s wrong?” His gaze shot to Belle, looking for an explanation.
She had no way to reassure him that she hadn’t revealed anything he didn’t want known.
“Sometimes it just hits me,” his mother said. “All of the things I’m going to leave behind. All of the ways I’ll no longer be able to help.” She reached out her hand to him. “I’m not even going to see any of your children.”
Flynn’s expression softened. He bent over and gave her a hug. He didn’t speak, just shut his eyes and held her.
His mother leaned against his chest. “If you and Belle marry, I won’t be here for your children, and her mother hardly qualifies as a good grandmother.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Flynn said. “My kids will be fine.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Mrs. Dawson burst into tears. Inconsolable, gasping tears.
“What?” Flynn asked, alarmed. He moved to better see her.
Mrs. Dawson picked up her napkin, dabbed at her cheeks and eyes, and between sobs, said, “Belle’s grandparents thought she was fine as a child, but she wasn’t. Now you said the same thing about your future children.”
In her mind, Flynn’s declaration had apparently become an omen, proof that his children wouldn’t be fine.
For several minutes, Flynn and Belle both tried to comfort and reassure her, but she would have none of it. The rest of the family noticed the scene, and Mr. Dawson came out. Everyone else tried to press their way onto the balcony until finally Mrs. Dawson moved into the living room to try to compose herself there. The family hovered about, and Raleigh climbed on her lap.
“I’ll kiss your owies better, Grandma, ’cause I love you.”
Which not only made Mrs. Dawson cry again, but Paige and Kennedy, too.
Paige sat beside her mother, one arm around her, one around her young daughter. “Grandma knows how much we love her, even though we probably don’t say it enough. Because it’s impossible to say it enough.”
Everyone teared up, including Belle, and she wasn’t even part of the family.
Mrs. Dawson insisted on hugging everybody and telling them each how much she loved and appreciated them, even Belle, who, again, wasn’t part of the family.
Guilt pinged around inside of her, a reminder that she was an imposter. An imposter receiving hugs, love, and acceptance—none of which belonged to her. Another part of her soaked the affection in. This was what having a family felt like. Love and tears mixing together, worry, and the way everyone tried to make things better. This was how it was supposed to be, and Belle couldn’t help but envy them for having it.
If she ever had her own family, she wanted them to be like the Dawsons.
Chapter 19
Flynn sat on a chair in his mother’s room, where she lay proppe
d on her bed. Breakfast had worn her out, and he’d seen her back to her room. He gave her pills both for pain and nausea, then turned on the TV, and flipped through channels in an attempt to find something in English.
“Don’t bother,” she said. “I don’t feel like watching TV. Just stay and chat for a bit. I haven’t had a chance to talk to you alone since we came here.”
He could guess what she wanted to talk about: Belle and their relationship.
“I’d ask how work is going,” his mother said, “but I already know.” Flynn’s father was on Bainbridge’s board of directors, was one of the original founders. “Your dad says you work too much.”
“He’d complain more if I didn’t work enough.”
She smoothed out her blanket. “Life is about relationships. You’ve heard the saying: When on their deathbed, no one ever wishes they’d spent more time at the office. I can tell you for a fact that it’s true.”
He swallowed and looked out the window at the ocean. He didn’t want to think about his mother’s mortality. He hated every reminder that one day soon, he wouldn’t be able to pick up his phone and call her. One day, he’d walk into his parents’ house, and she wouldn’t be there to greet him.
He’d come to the reunion with the intent of convincing his mother to undergo more treatment. But after seeing her sick and struggling for the last few days, he couldn’t ask her to go through even more pain just so he wouldn’t miss her quite so soon.
He left his chair and sat on the bed beside her, taking her hand in his. “I can take a leave from work to spend time with you.” He began mentally sifting through his accounts, deciding which partners could handle them.
“You’re sweet to offer,” she said. “But that’s not what I meant.”
“Then… what?”
“A relationship needs time and attention, or it won’t last.”
So this was about Belle.
“When you buy Fontaine, you’re certainly not going to overload Belle so she has to take work on vacation again, are you?”
How I Met Your Brother (Power of the Matchmaker) Page 16
