Part 13 (2/2)

He continued to eat, clearly enjoying the meal, allowing her to steer the conversation. She told him about Meredith's interview and how right the position seemed for her. ”I'm hoping she'll get the position. So that she can be a bit more . . . independent.”

”Sounds good,” he replied. ”I'm glad Mother could be of help.” He said this without irony, and she knew if she asked him, he'd do everything in his power to make sure Meredith got the job. That he would most likely do this without being asked. Because he was used to taking care of them. Jonathan took the last bites of veal, then dabbed at the corners of his mouth with the cloth napkin.

”Would you like a little more?” she asked hopefully, still not ready to dive into the subject that filled her mind. Maybe she should wait until he'd had dessert and had time to digest the meal. Maybe it would be better to talk after s.e.x when both of them would be . . . more relaxed. His eyes skimmed over her bare skin and lingered on the rise and fall of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

”No, thanks.” He topped off both their winegla.s.ses and looked pointedly at the food on her plate, which she had spent the meal rearranging. ”Why don't you tell me what's on your mind?” he said. ”I appreciate the great food, but I feel kind of bad for enjoying it so much when you look so miserable.”

She set down her fork and forced herself to meet his eyes. There was absolutely no point in putting this conversation off a minute longer. She'd been doing it all week and had gained nothing but completely frazzled nerves. Hunter was already furious with her-after he'd sent the one-pager he'd refused to return her phone calls. ”It's about Hunter.” She swallowed. ”And the nanotechnology thing.”

His jaw tightened and she knew just how wrong she'd been to put off bringing it up. He waited until she had no choice but to explain.

”Apparently there's a question about who owns the patent. There's something off about the stock issue and some of the other investors are . . . unsavory. Hunter's convinced that if he doesn't put in another hundred thousand dollars the whole thing will crash and the press will get hold of it.” She swallowed again, the words stuck in her throat. ”And the SEC seems poised to launch an investigation.”

He didn't say anything but continued to watch her closely. His eyes gave nothing away and she felt a brief stab of pity for the people who'd sat on the other side of boardroom conference tables.

”I'm so sorry,” she said in a rush, afraid that if she didn't, she'd swallow the words once again and never find the courage to speak them. ”I don't want you to give him any more money, but it's all such a big mess. And I'm afraid that the firm's going to be dragged into it.”

Something flickered in his eyes, but she couldn't identify it. He studied her closely, giving nothing away.

”I warned him the last time your reputation was threatened. But I . . . he wants to earn your respect; I know that's what he wants. But he just goes from one awful scheme to another. I told him there'd be no more money, that he had to go find a job, but I . . . I don't want you damaged and I don't want him to end up in jail.”

”Jesus.” He said this quietly, his eyes still on her. There was something new in them that she still couldn't decipher. Irritation? Disappointment? Weariness? Most likely it was all of the above.

”What do you want me to say?” His voice was clipped, his jaw tight. Whatever was going on inside was nowhere near as casual as his tone.

”I don't know,” she admitted. She looked at her husband. The man she'd married out of fear and panic when she was barely old enough to understand what marriage was. His eyes had darkened until they were practically navy. There was that tick in his cheek again.

”I'm so sorry,” she said again. ”I should have put a stop to all of this a long time ago. Both he and Meredith have taken advantage.” She resisted the urge to drop her eyes. ”I feel like we all have.”

She folded her hands in her lap to keep them from trembling. ”I . . . I'm sorry. I know that's completely inadequate, but I am.” She made herself meet his eyes. ”I know you must be so angry.”

He shook his head, ran a hand through his hair. ”Being angry at Hunter is like being angry at a tornado for turning counterclockwise. He's a born gambler just like your father.” He hesitated and Samantha knew he was thinking of her father's theft. How seriously he'd damaged the law firm that Jonathan had inherited and given his life to rebuilding. ”He really believes that each venture is going to be the big score,” Jonathan continued. ”I'm not angry at Hunter. I understand where he's coming from and what motivates him. And I'm certainly not going to let him go to jail.”

His eyes clouded and she began to understand. Knew she'd had good reason to avoid this conversation. ”You're angry at . . . me.” She said it quietly as if speaking softly would somehow soften the blow.

He nodded. ”I'm angry that after twenty-five years of marriage you could actually be unable to eat a meal you've gone to great lengths to pretend you've cooked, because you're afraid to talk to me.” The tick in his cheek became more p.r.o.nounced. ”I'm angry and disappointed,” he said, looking both. ”Because it's so obvious that you don't understand me, or my motivations, at all.”

TWO WEEKS LATER, ON THE MORNING OF MARISSA Dalton's birthday party, Brooke awoke long before her alarm. For a time she lay in bed examining the day that lay ahead and going over the past weeks, which had been as turbulent as a propeller plane caught in a bank of thunderstorms. The pleasures of planning the ”princess picnic” were the highs-the time spent dreading Zachary and Sarah's move into the Alexander, which would also take place today, had provided the stomach-churning drops.

With a potential guest list compiled with the help of the Daltons' neighbor across the street, Brooke had sent out invitations to the girls in Marissa's cla.s.s and in her neighborhood and received a rea.s.suring number of RSVPs. Last night she'd used cookie cutters to turn the picnic sandwiches into stars and hearts, loaded the art supplies and goody bags into the station wagon, and triple-confirmed the castle-shaped birthday cake, which she'd pick up on the way.

Bruce Dalton had insisted she bring Natalie and Ava to Marissa's party and the girls had shopped enthusiastically for a birthday present for the little girl they'd never met, asking questions the entire time.

”How come her mommy isn't giving her a birthday party?” Natalie had asked.

”Because she doesn't have one, sweetie. Her mommy was sick and had to go to heaven.”

The girls were stunned that someone could not have a mommy. Missing fathers peppered the landscape at the private school they attended and, of course, there was the largely absent Zachary to let them know exactly what that felt like. But it clearly had never occurred to them that a mother might go away and not come back.

”Are you feeling okay, Mommy?” Ava had laid a chubby hand on Brooke's arm as they walked the aisles of Target's toy department, and Brooke knew she wasn't asking about her emotional well-being, but her plans to continue breathing.

”I feel great, sweetheart,” Brooke said carefully. ”And I'm not going anywhere.” She hefted Ava up into her arms and planted a kiss on her forehead. ”But that's why Marissa's daddy asked me to help plan Marissa's birthday party. And we're going to be extra sure she has a good time since she's new here and doesn't know a lot of people yet.”

Natalie nodded sagely. ”I me-member when we didn't know anybody at our school. It feels so sad.”

Brooke reached down to squeeze her oldest's hand. The move to Atlanta had been hard; the lessons learned when Zachary left them harder still. ”It's good to look out for other people who might need help to feel better,” she said to both of them. ”That's called empathy.” She felt her heart rise in her throat. ”And it's a good trait to have.”

It had been a great teaching moment and she was proud of her children. But at this particular moment Brooke was most thankful that they'd be out of the Alexander today while Zach and Sarah moved into it.

The girls, however, were fascinated with the idea of their father a mere floor away and couldn't leave the topic alone.

”Will Daddy really live in the building when we get back from the birthday party?” Natalie asked over her bowl of Cap'n Crunch.

”Does Sarah have to come with him?” Ava wanted to know.

”Why can't he just live here with us?” Natalie asked.

These were all very good questions. For which Brooke had no good answers. She was relieved when they were struck dumb with admiration for the turret-topped birthday cake they retrieved from the bakery. A castle that Brooke thought bore a striking resemblance to Downton Abbey; except for the Rapunzel-haired figure peering out from the turret window.

”Oh, Daddy, look at the castle!” Marissa Dalton's squeal of joy at her first sight of them and her birthday cake pushed all thoughts of Zachary and his girlfriend out of Brooke's mind. The smile that split Bruce Dalton's face at his daughter's excitement set the tone for the rest of the day.

The Daltons' backyard was green and lush and perfectly shaded. Leaves stirred in the early October breeze as Marissa, Natalie, and Ava raced outside to watch the castle-shaped bounce house put into position and inflated. While they ”tested” the castle's bounce-worthiness, Brooke set up the arts-and-crafts stations, decorated the help-yourself lemonade stand, and arranged the cake on a table in the screened porch where everyone could see it but insects couldn't get to it.

As the guests arrived Marissa handed each little girl a pink or purple princess scepter and crown, and directed them to the arts-and-crafts tables where they could decorate them. The mothers who stayed congregated around a table Brooke had set with iced tea and fancy finger sandwiches. Many of them seemed keen on getting better acquainted with Bruce Dalton, who at times looked alternately pleased and panicked at their attention.

Marissa's purple princesses had trounced the pink team in egg carrying and the three-legged race, but lost the sack race when Brooke called a temporary halt to the relay races so that the picnic lunch could be served. The girls buzzed happily as they found seats on the blankets that had been spread beneath the trees.

”You've done an incredible job.” The girls were munching on their sandwiches and drinking their lemonades when Bruce Dalton came up beside her. ”I haven't seen Marissa so happy since . . . well, not for a long time. Everything's been just right.”

Brooke glowed at his praise. The party was going well. She was gratified to see Marissa in the center of what looked like a great circle of friends-to-be; a circle her own two had been cheerfully drawn into.

”Thank you,” she said. ”I'm so glad she's having a good time.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw the mothers watching Bruce Dalton and couldn't blame them. He was a nice man with a gentle, rea.s.suring warmth. As she surveyed the interested females, she hoped he'd fall into sympathetic hands.

”The Princess Wars was sheer genius,” he continued, his eyes on his daughter. ”It's the perfect blend of princess and tomboy.”

Brooke blushed at the compliment but felt an internal glow at the truth of it. Everything about the party, and Bruce Dalton's approval, made her feel good. ”I think it's time to let Marissa blow out her candles. After the cake we'll try to burn up a little of the sugar high in the bouncy castle and with one or two more relay events before we declare the winning princesses.”

”Sounds good,” he said, flas.h.i.+ng her a smile and motioning to Marissa. Together they led the way to the porch where Brooke lit the sparkler at the top of the cake's front turret.

Later, when the yard had been cleaned up, the bouncy castle retrieved, and her own children finally convinced it was time to leave, Bruce Dalton and his daughter walked them out to the driveway and helped them load the car.

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