Children of Dynasty (36 page)

Then Davis gave a curt nod and retreated. John’s fists opened, but when he spoke, his voice was still taut. “I’d always hoped someday you’d find forgiveness in your heart for me and Catharine, but I can see it’s not to be.”

“You’ve never asked forgiveness.”

“Nor will I. Catharine and I could no more help loving each other than any poor human souls.” John sent a significant glance at Mariah and Rory, and then looked back at Davis. “You came to buy Grant Development … I’ll give you my answer. If I have to dismantle every project brick by brick with my bare hands, if I must go into bankruptcy, you will never see your name on anything of mine.”

Mariah inhaled sharply.

Davis gave a curt nod. “So be it.” He turned toward the door.

Rory hesitated.

“Are you coming?” Davis barked.

Despite that Rory had twice intervened to keep the meeting from becoming a brawl, Mariah still couldn’t believe him representing DCI in dealing the death blow to Grant. “He’s right at your heels,” she told Davis.

Rory gave her a last look, then followed his father out the door.

When they were gone, John looked as though he’d run a hard race. He moved unsteadily back to his chair and massaged his chest.

“Did you mean that about bankruptcy?” she asked.

Sitting down, John’s voice firmed. “I’m not letting him win.”

Mariah’s mind raced. “There has to be another way. We’ll get a business broker, have them auction the company on the east coast.”

“You’re welcome to try, but don’t forget that with the Grant Plaza construction note, we were temporarily upside down on our loans. The sales at Bayview were going to turn things around within a month.”

“I’ve been wondering about that, Dad. I’d have thought you too conservative to let that happen. Did Arnold talk you into it?”

“It was his idea, but I would never have done it if Tom hadn’t agreed.”

Out on the street, the rain had let up. Instead of hailing a cab like they had on the way down, Davis struck out walking fast on the wet sidewalk. Rory had no trouble keeping up with his stride, as angry as he was.

“I can’t believe you went in there like that, Father,” he burst out. “You had to know he’d never sell his life’s work for a lousy million dollars. Your house cost three times that!”

“He’d better take what he can get!” Davis raised his voice as well, drawing curious glances from people outside the building where Grant officed. “On Friday the company will be worth nothing to him.”

Rory grabbed his father’s arm. When that didn’t slow him, he speeded his steps and blocked his path. “What did you expect? That he’d roll over and let you cut his throat, maybe lie there on his back with his belly exposed and whimper, ‘I’m sorry I fell in love with the same woman you did.’ People can’t help things like that!”

Davis shook his head. “One way or another, I’m going to bring him to his knees.”

Stares gave way to pedestrians giving them a wide berth.

“Why can’t you leave it?” Rory lowered his voice. “John is old before his time, and sick. If he dies, Mariah won’t rest until she sees you in your grave.”

“She won’t fight me.”

“The hell she won’t. Catharine may have been sweet, but as you’ve just seen, John’s daughter is tough. She’ll fight you, and I’d bet she’s going to find out whether you had anything to do with the Grant Plaza accident.”

Rory looked into his father’s eyes and saw pain.

“You believe that of me, too?” Davis said with what appeared to be dawning wonder. “I’ve done things you don’t approve of, but I’d never compromise the safety of people on the job.”

Without warning, Rory’s eyes misted. “I want to believe you,” he said thickly.

“But you don’t,” Davis cut in. “When you made that call, trying to warn the Grants, you went over to their side.”

Rory envisioned the chess pieces in opposition. “I’m sick to death of people expecting me to take sides. It’s past time this feud came to an end.”

He drove into the June twilight to release the tightly wound spring inside him. Punishing the Porsche, he crossed the Golden Gate, took the exit for Shore Highway, and put the car through its paces on the winding road that flanked Mount Tamalpais. The afternoon’s rain had given way to a perfect gem of an evening, but its beauty was lost on him.

He’d told his father people couldn’t help whom they cared for; John had said that, too. Well, Rory cared for Mariah and the cold look in her eyes when he’d come into Grant with his father had cut deep.

Yet, how could he be upset with her for defending the company? It was her father’s life’s work and she had the same drive to create and transform space. Her vehicle to do that was Grant Development just as he had naively imagined DCI would someday be his when he’d come into the company. Some might say a gift like theirs was wasted on commercial ventures like Grant Plaza or Bayview Townhomes, but he didn’t see it that way and knew she didn’t either. They each knew that the product was not merely metal, glass, and plaster, but a space designed for people to work and live.

That French country chateau on the ocean between Pacific Grove and Pebble Beach had beckoned them both. He’d turned in to look merely because he enjoyed real estate, but it had quickly become more personal. Mariah’s shining eyes as they went from room to room told him she imagined the two of them together. He’d done the same, seeing them sunbathing poolside, casting off in a small tight sailboat, and returning home at dusk to prepare a meal in the brick country kitchen.

But how could any of that happen? John’s refusal to roll over would only make Father more determined to make him bleed. After Friday’s inevitable foreclosure, he’d probably talk First California into going after John’s personal accounts and his house. It might not end until John was dead.

Then Mariah would have lost everything, and in her mind, he would share the blame.

The thought made Rory feel like a foot-wide hole had been kicked in his chest. He had to go to her, explain … for God’s sake, if he showed up at John Grant’s house, no one would open the door. And he didn’t relish the idea of a repeat of his “man locked out” performance for TV.

With his headlights making ghosts of hulking redwoods, he forced his reckless energy through the gas pedal. The mountain road wound down to the ocean at Muir Beach. Rory pulled into a parking lot to watch the sunset. Usually he enjoyed the spectacle of the orange orb sinking into the windswept navy sea.

Tonight he stared out at the restless swells. What he was going to do with the rest of his life? One thing he did know was that as long as DCI was in the hands of his father, he would have nothing more to do with it. It was too late for him to find out anything that would save Grant Development from the inevitable foreclosure, so there was no excuse to remain.

He got out of the car and leaned against it while the ochre horizon faded to crimson. The first cold bluish star might be Venus or Jupiter; he wasn’t up on his astronomy.

He wished on it anyway. Like a superstitious fool, he asked for an insight on getting outside the box.

Looking for work was a dead end in the city, impossible anywhere if Father’s buddy Larry Chatsworth took it out on him because he’d publicly left Sylvia at the altar. And, say he found a post somewhere else, moving would mean leaving his unhappy mother behind. Despite her threat to leave Father, he thought she was too much a prisoner of feeling to walk away. Even if he could get to Mariah, she would stay behind; she would never leave John in ill health.

Leaving town was no good. Neither was selling used cars or carrying a sign that said, “will work for food” and hanging out under freeways.

The last time Rory had driven and ended up at the sea, back at the beginning of May, he’d struggled with the same demons. He’d been jousting those devils since the rainy day in Sausalito when John Grant’s daughter came into his life and changed it forever.

Below on the rocks, the surf made a white explosion. Wind whipped at his shirtsleeves, but he bore the cold without reaching for a jacket. If Mariah were here, he’d put his arms around her, pull her against him to keep her — and him — warm. Once more, he marveled at how he could feel alone in a crowd, but never when she was with him.

There had to be an answer for both him and her. It was out there in the gathering night, hiding in the fogbank rising as the air cooled. Something that would not merely rearrange the kings and the pawns, but sweep away the pieces and break up the board.

T
hursday morning Mariah awakened in her dotted Swiss bedroom and felt that nothing had been accomplished in all the years since she’d slept there as a child. It was all she could do to make it out of bed. Once she did, she put on her terry bathrobe and followed the aromas of perking coffee and toast to the kitchen. Her father, already dressed in his khakis and blue shirt, stood at the stove overseeing poached eggs.

“First, fast food Monday evening with Arnold …”

John turned and gave her a hard look. Last night, she had watched him try to phone Arnold a dozen times, to no avail, each time hanging up with silent grief and disappointment in the man he’d trusted with his finances, and ultimately, his life’s work.

The subject of Arnold was clearly off-limits.

“My cholesterol is one-forty-five.” John said, lifting the pan from the burner. “Besides, eggs, poached without butter, are off the blacklist.”

Mariah closed her mouth and went to the cabinet for a cup, noting that the can on the counter was labeled decaf. She poured and took her coffee to the table, torn between wanting to mother him and knowing he’d lived nearly sixty years on his own.

He pulled down two plates, arranged the dry toast and placed the eggs with care to avoid breaking the yolks. She liked her yolks runny. Though her impulse was to jump up and help, she let him bring the food to the table, go back for silverware, salt and pepper, and fetch his own coffee, black.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. When both had sopped up the last of the eggs with toast and settled back into their chairs, he placed his hands on the table, palms down. “I think it’s time you moved back to your apartment.”

“Are you kidding?” She pushed back her plate. “You were just at the hospital Monday.”

“Dr. Hanover said it was up to me if I needed you hovering. She said as long as I keep my call button handy for emergencies, I should do fine on my own.” He gestured at the dishes. “I can keep myself fed and watered. Mrs. Schertz will come in and do the housework and shopping until I can drive.”

“You’re not coming in to the office today.” She prepared to do battle.

“No. After yesterday, I think I’ll take Dr. Hanover’s advice and rest.” From the scowl on his face, she thought he was thinking of Davis.

Mariah looked at the sensible breakfast he’d cooked; perhaps she had been too harsh about a single cheeseburger. It had to make him nervous when she rearranged his magazines and tended his houseplants. With his company being taken from him, his sense of pride demanded at least that he have personal independence.

The difficulty lay in her. If she left her dad’s companionship and moved back to her place with Charley forever gone, and no chance of being with Rory, she’d be more alone than ever.