"If your father knew I was taking up your time, he would have a fit." Mattie pushed Ashe toward the office door. "He's been buzzing me every five minutes asking if you were here yet." On cue, the intercom buzzed. "See?" She hit the intercom button. "He's here." Mattie looked at Ashe. "Go on. What are you waiting for?"
Ashe wiped his hand on his pants. "It's been a while."
"Too long." Mattie gave Ashe another push. "Go on. I don't think you'll be sorry."
Raising his hand to knock, Ashe was surprised when the door opened. Whatever he expected, it wasn't his father, big and robust as ever, holding out his arms in welcome. The tension fell away, and without hesitation, Ashe embraced his father.
"There's my boy." Randall Mathison whispered gruffly, his strong arms keeping Ashe near. "Welcome home, son."
"It's good to be here, Dad."
Somebody sniffled—Mattie. Though Ashe would have sworn he saw a suspicious trace of moisture in his father's eyes, it was hard to tell since he was blinking back a few tears of his own.
"Coffee all around?" Mattie asked, wiping her cheeks.
"Whiskey," Ashe and Randall answered simultaneously. Drawing a smile from Mattie.
"Come in and sit down." Randall closed the door. He went to the wet bar—the one that had been there for generations—and poured the drinks. "I had a speech planned, but suddenly, I can't think of anything to say."
"I know what you mean." Ashe took the glass. Holding it out, he tapped it against his father's. "You look good, Dad."
"Not bad for a sixty-year-old fool?"
"If I didn't know, I would never guess sixty." It was true. Randall sported a full head of hair, liberally laced with silver. He carried a few extra pounds around the middle, but his eyes were clear and his body tall and sturdy. "I'd say the fool part goes both ways."
Randall took a sip of whiskey. "I'm stubborn. That's an important trait in business. Not so much when dealing with an equally stubborn son."
"I used to tell myself that I was nothing like you. I was wrong." They both chuckled.
Ashe was amazed at how natural it felt to sit in his father's office. Where was the stilted awkwardness he had expected? His father seemed a bit nervous—so was he. Was it simply the passage of time? Or had something specific happened to bring this about?
"I imagine you have a few questions." Randall loosened his silk tie, the dark blue perfectly matched to his custom-made navy suit.
"A few," Ashe smiled wryly. "I hate to break our sudden detente. The last time we sat in a room where the atmosphere felt this relaxed…" Ashe shrugged. "Maybe before I turned thirteen."
"Ah, yes. The terrible teens." Randall sighed. "That's when it started. I couldn't figure out what happened to my son. Before, we seemed to be on the same wavelength."
"My ambitions changed, Dad. I didn't know how to tell you."
Randall's eyes narrowed as he lifted his glass, taking a thoughtful sip. "Music."
"Yes."
Ashe waited for what he was certain would follow. This was where his father always sneered, showing his contempt at the thought of anybody attempting to make a living in what he derisively terms the arts. Once again, Randall surprised him.
"I wish I had understood, son. You're good. Check that. You're amazing. I had Mattie download all your albums for me."
Ashe couldn't believe his ears. "All of them?"
Randall nodded. "See that?" He pointed to his chest. "It's puffed out with pride. I was on a plane last week. The woman in the seat next to me was reading an article about your band. I pointed to your picture and said, That's my boy. To say she was impressed is putting it mildly."
"I'm sorry. This is a bit much to take in all at once." Ashe finished his whiskey in one gulp, the burn helping to focus his thoughts. "When did this happen? Was it gradual or did you have a sudden revelation?"
"Yes, and yes."
"That clears things up." Ashe stood, walking to the decanter. He poured himself another drink. "Dad?"
"No. One is my limit these days." Randall waited until Ashe took his seat. "I've wanted to reconnect with you for some time. However, I will admit it was always with the hope that I could talk you into coming back to the business."
Ashe felt a weight descend into his gut. There it was, he thought. The very thing he had feared. Ten years and all the success Ashe had achieved and his father still believed the business was all that mattered.
"Relax. I don't feel that way any longer."
"What?" Ashe almost dropped his glass. His chin was another matter. At the moment, it was planted firmly on the floor.
"Surprised?" Randall inquired with a grin.
"The hell with a feather. You could knock me over with a look."
"It took a pretty big jolt to make me see the error of my ways." Meeting Ashe's gaze, Randall's expression turned serious. "I had a health scare. The doctors have a fancy name for it, but essentially it was a pre-heart attack."
"Jesus, Dad." Ashe sat forward, setting his glass down with a thud. "Georgia didn't say anything."
"Because she doesn't know. Nobody outside of a hospital in Denver. I had chest pains when I was there on a business trip just after the first of the year."
"You went through it by yourself?" Ashe had a hard time processing the information. "What if it had been serious? What if…?" He couldn't bring himself to say the words.
"What if I had died?" Randall laughed. "I wouldn't have cared, and your mother would have been spared rushing to my bedside only to find out she was too late."
"Are you making a joke?" Ashe couldn't see the humor in the situation. "That's a little morbid, Dad."
"I understand. But I've had longer to live with it. Better to laugh than cry, right?"
That had always been Ashe's theory. However, this was the first time he was faced with his father's potential mortality. Funny it wasn't.
"You're certain it wasn't an actual heart attack?"
"I saw my doctor as soon as I was back in Boston. After a thorough examination, he assured me my heart was fine. And I was damn lucky. It was time to change my lifestyle. Fewer late hours, better nutrition, no more cigars, and only one whiskey a day." His lips twisting, Randall raised his glass. "More than anything, I miss that after-dinner whiskey and cigar. Remember the first—and last—time I shared the ritual with you?"
"I do." Ashe smiled at the memory. At seventeen, he was certain he was ready. A few puffs and couple of sips was all it took for him to heave his guts over the balcony railing. "It took a long time before I could smell cigar smoke without my stomach clenching."
"In retrospect, I'm glad you didn't pick up the habit. Take it from me, you're better off."
"Are you doing okay, Dad?"
Randall nodded. "I had a checkup last week. I've lost a few pounds." He patted his stomach. "I could lose a few more. My cholesterol is down to a reasonable level—as is my blood pressure."
Ashe felt the lump in his throat ease away. "That's good."
"My health is better than it has been in years. I'm grateful. However, something more came out of that scare in Denver. My eyes were opened to how quickly life passes us by." Randall snapped his fingers. "I've missed ten years, Ashe. I'd like to think that I have at least ten more in me. And I hope you'll let me share part of it with you."
"You won't be able to get rid of me again," Ashe assured his father.
Randall nodded, letting out a deep sigh. "Good. Now, about this music career of yours."
Ashe didn't want to upset his father, but he had to make certain there were no misunderstandings between them. "I sing for my supper. Nothing is going to change that."
"I should hope not. You followed your heart—and your destiny. I'm proud of you, Ashe."
They were words Ashe no longer needed. But that didn't make hearing them any less special.
"Thank you, Dad."
"I went to your concert."
Certain he must have misheard, Ashe cupped
his ear with his hand. "Excuse me? Would you say that again?"
"I understand musicians sometimes lose their hearing," Randall said, the edge of his eyes crinkling with humor.
"My hearing is fine. There are just some things you never expect your father to say. I went to your concert tops my list."
"Good to know I still have a few surprises left in me."
"A few." Ashe sat back in his chair, shaking his head. "This afternoon has been nothing but surprises. Most of them pleasant ones. Now, about this concert. When, where, and what did you think?"
"When? A few months ago. Where? Here in Boston."
Unbelievable. What was with his family? First Georgia, now his father? A few words and there could have been a family reunion. At the very least, Randall could have hitched a ride with his daughter.
"I had Mattie get me a ticket. One for her, too."
"You and Mattie?" It kept getting better and better. "Go on. Tell me what you thought."
Randall put his elbows on the desk, resting his chin on his hands. "There is a song I discovered recently. Flowers are Red. Do you know it?"
"Harry Chapin."
"Yes. It touched me in a way that is hard to put into words."
Ashe understood. Harry Chapin had been a master storyteller. Flowers are Red was a little-known gem. It told of a boy who looked at the world in a non-traditional way. But his teacher made him conform—flowers are red. Period. After years of this, he was never able to regain his spark of creativity—even when a new teacher told him it was okay to be different.
"You have a gift, Ashe. Can you forgive me for trying to make you believe that flowers can only be red?"
"None of that matters now." Ashe reached across the desk, grasping his father's hand. "You raised me to be an individual. That is why I had the strength to go my own way."
"Thank you, son. I don't know if I deserve that much credit, but I'd like to think you are at least partially right."
"What about the business? I'm never coming back."
Randall gave Ashe's hand another squeeze. "I always thought it was my legacy. I was wrong. A hundred years from now, nobody is going to care about how much money I accrued selling and manufacturing do-dads."
Ashe smiled. It was the first time he had heard his father make a joke about his business.
"You should be proud of what you've accomplished, Dad. The business is thriving."
"How do you know?"
"I keep track."
Ashe still watched the stock market. His father's company had grown in worth every year since he had been in charge. In such a volatile economy, that was no small feat.
"I love what I do," Randall told him. "I think your brother will do a good job when he takes over. The thing is, I won't be around to care."
"That's a fatalistic view."
"I prefer realistic." His expression sober, Randall flattened his hands onto the desk with a slap. "You, my boy, you are my legacy. The songs that you craft will be here forever. You've done the Mathison name proud."
Those words his father spoke disconcerted Ashe. He swallowed, searching for something to say, finding nothing. Emotions, however, he had in spades. At a loss for something deep and profound, he chose to keep it simple and from the heart.
"I love you, Dad."
"That is a legacy any man would envy." Randall cleared his throat, blinking several times. "I love you, Ashe. If you ever doubted that, I'm sorry. Now." This time when he slapped the desk, the sound echoed through the room. "We have some catching up to do. Tell me everything you've been up to."
"It will take a while."
"We have two hours until we have to leave for the party." Randall relaxed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Go on. And don't leave out a single detail."
Stretching out his legs, Ashe thought for a moment, then began. "The day I left home I went to the Greyhound terminal. From there I caught a bus to Chicago."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BELLE SMOOTHED THE skirt of her dress, waiting for Theo to get out of the car. She couldn't imagine what was taking him so long. She exchanged impatient looks with the man holding the door. Nigel had worked as a chauffeur for Theo's family for almost a quarter of a century. After all that time, he had no illusions about the heir apparent. He never spoke an unkind word, going about his job with admirable stoicism. However, Belle had noticed that, on occasions like this, he would roll his eyes.
"Theo. There are cars waiting for ours to move." Belle stuck her head in the limousine. "What is taking so long?
"I'm not feeling well."
"Fine. Nigel can take you home."
"Aren't you coming?"
Theo grabbed at Belle's hand, the nail on his index finger leaving a red trail on her skin.
"No, I'm not coming. I have on a new dress." Bought over her lunch hour with Ashe in mind. "There's a party in there, and I'm going."
Belle didn't wait for Theo's answer. She didn't understand his problem—nor did she particularly care. True, she invited herself to be his date for the evening. However, she offered to drive herself—he was the one who insisted on picking Belle up at her apartment. From the moment she entered the back of the limo, Theo had been nothing but a pain in her ass.
"You'll be bored," Theo told her before the car had pulled away from the curb. "It's a sixtieth birthday party. Old people eating old people food."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know." Theo tugged at his shirt collar, looking uncomfortable. His tuxedo was perfectly tailored, made of the finest materials. He acted as if someone had replaced the suit with off the rack burlap.
"I thought you would be happy. Your parents are always thrilled when we go out together."
"Why do you care?" Theo threw back at Belle, his tone belligerent. "You are forcing me to destroy their dreams. Unless you've changed your mind about going through with the wedding?"
The privacy panel was up between them and the driver. Knowing they couldn't be overheard, Belle spoke her mind. "Your parents will survive, Theo. Give them a chance to readjust their dreams. Maybe you and Blaine can adopt. Or hire a surrogate. A little boy with your genes? That might pacify them."
"No. That would send them to an early grave."
"Then what's your plan, Theo? Stay in the closet? Find a woman willing to marry you and act as your lifelong beard?" When Theo merely shrugged, Belle slapped her forehead—she should have slapped him. "Are you actually considering such a harebrained idea? You know what? I don't care."
They had spent the rest of the ride in silence. Belle didn't care what Theo did. It was no longer her concern—thank the Lord. Leaving Nigel holding the door, she started up the stairs. She was almost to the Mathison's front door when her soon-to-be ex-fiancé caught up.
"This is not a good idea." Theo took out his handkerchief, wiping the perspiration from his brow.
"I won't force you to stay by my side all night." Belle smiled at the maid who greeted them. "A quick hello to your parents and we can go our separate ways."
"That might help," Theo mumbled to nobody in particular. "But I doubt it."
Shaking her head at his nonsense, Belle took two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter. Her intention was to give one to Theo. Instead, he grabbed both glasses, downing the first in one gulp. The second followed in quick succession.
"Slow down. You know your lips get loose after a few drinks."
"That's the hard stuff. Champagne makes me happy, not talkative." Signaling the waiter, Theo was soon sipping at his refill. "Happy bubbles. Why can't life be all sparkling wine and rainbows?"
"Because that would be weird?" Theo wasn't listening. With a deep sigh, Belle scanned the room. "There are your parents. Come on."
Looping her arm through Theo's, Belle crossed the room, trying hard to camouflage the fact that it was necessary for her to pull him every step of the way.
Belle said her hellos—making them short and sweet—bef
ore excusing herself. Thank goodness for the bathroom. It was the universal way to exit any uncomfortable situation gracefully. She could tell that Theo's father wanted to argue. He didn't appreciate Belle abandoning her fiancé. But what could he say? I refuse to let you leave to empty your bladder? Well-bred manners and the fact that, in his entire life, the man had probably never spoken to a woman about such things, were Belle's salvation.
Weaving through the crowd, Belle waved at friends and acquaintances, making certain she didn't get close enough to get waylaid. Deciding not to let herself be labeled a liar, she veered to the right and the powder room. Surprised to find it unoccupied, Belle took it as a sign that whatever deity was in charge of such things approved of her need to get away from Theo—and his parents. Not that it mattered, she thought, washing her hands. She didn't feel the slightest twinge of guilt.
Checking her hair, Belle gave herself a quick once over. The dress had been an impulse buy. She had seen it in the window of a boutique as she walked to the toy store. Giving into temptation, she stopped by during her lunch hour to see if it was as perfect as she remembered.
The satin's coppery glow complimented her skin, making it look like rich cream. The fit was loose, purposefully so, skimming her figure as opposed to hugging it. When Belle moved, the material lightly caressed her skin, making her think of Ashe and the way he touched her. Teasingly at first, then with increased purpose. The way he would touch her tonight when they snuck away to be alone.
It was a lovely thought, one that had Belle smiling as she left the bathroom. Scanning the room, she spied Ashe. Gorgeous, as usual. The man was born to wear a tuxedo. Or jeans and a t-shirt. Or nothing at all. She didn't care as long as she was around to enjoy the view.
Ashe mimed raising a drink to his lips. Nodding, she waited while he went to the bar. It took no time for him to make his way toward her, a glass in each hand.
"Hello, Ashe." Belle's smile widened when she saw he held whiskey, not champagne. The man had read her mind.
"Hello, Belle." There was something about the way Ashe said her name. The deep timbre of his voice made her skin tingle. "I saw you arrive with Theo. I somehow pictured someone less buffoon-like."
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