For the Love of Family (7 page)

Francie touched her arm gently. “The conference room isn’t being used. I think there’s even some fruit left on the tray from the meeting.”

Belle smiled gratefully. “Thank you.” She moved toward the opening to the next set of offices. “Dad, we can go in here.”

Diamante’s small corporate headquarters had originally been three separate town houses, George had explained on the first day. The remodeling had deliberately left the flavor of the original 1890s structures.

The conference room ran along the southern wall of the center town house, a large, lovely space filled with light from two bay windows overlooking the street below. From here she could see Banditos, the Mexican restaurant where she and Joe had eaten yesterday.

Oh, God.
That was it, wasn’t it? Her father wasn’t here to give her grief about her job. He must have found out about her mother’s forbidden visit to Adam.

With her stomach starting to churn in that old, familiar way, Belle led her father into the room, which hadn’t yet been cleaned up. A few plates with picked-over grapes and kiwi fruit littered the table. The whole office complex always had a faint, delicious odor of pizza from the restaurant downstairs, but the scent was strongest in this room.

Sam wrinkled his nose. “What a mess.” He flicked a forefinger, lifting one of the plates. “They don’t exactly run a tight ship, do they?”

She could have explained that they had held a long breakfast meeting in here just five minutes ago, but why bother? She’d expected something like this. Having won the newspaper-versus-public-relations argument, he would now have to find something else to criticize.

Obviously the new complaint would be that the firm
that had employed her wasn’t big enough, prestigious enough. That it was sloppy, and smelled like a back alley in Little Italy.

Well, to heck with that. Diamante Pizza was an honest, well-managed family business, and Matt Malone had been willing to give an untried neophyte a chance.

That was good enough in her book.

Belle leaned a hip on the edge of the conference table, signifying that their visit would be short. She folded her hands in front of her. She wasn’t looking forward to this, but they might as well get it over with.

“Tight enough that I probably shouldn’t have personal visitors on his time. What’s wrong, Dad? It really couldn’t have waited until I got off work tonight?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t keep you long. I know you must be very busy.”

He was being sarcastic, of course, but instead of being hurt Belle found it just plain annoying. He didn’t have a clue what she was doing at work today. In his head, she was still nine and trying to sell him a buttercup full of mud stew.

“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “I am quite busy. But if it’s urgent, of course I have time.”

“It’s about your mother.”

Belle kept her expression neutral. She wished she had made the effort to call her mom last night and find out what was going on. But she’d been so wrapped up in preparing for today’s meeting. She had foolishly assumed there was plenty of time.

How had her father found out so quickly?

Surely, if her mother had visited Adam, she would
have been careful. It was hard enough to imagine Emily disobeying one of her husband’s direct edicts. That she’d do so without covering her tracks was unthinkable.

Maybe Joe had told him. Her cousin had seemed disappointed that Belle wasn’t more sympathetic, and they’d parted on chilly terms. Had he decided it would be smarter to take care of the problem himself? Had he left their Mexican lunch and headed straight for Sam’s office to warn him to keep Emily in check?

“What about Mom? Is she all right?”

Sam paced to the window, and in the bright sunlight Belle could see about a dozen lines she’d never noticed before. They all pointed downward. Frown lines. Anger lines. And maybe, she was willing to admit, disappointment lines, too.

She’d probably put a few of those there herself.

“No, she’s not all right. She’s being unbelievably stubborn. I’ve tried to reason with her, but—” he wiped his hand across his face “—she won’t listen to me.”

“About what?”

“About anything, frankly. But the most important thing is this whole insanity about the Carson diamond. Everyone knows it has belonged to Carsons for three generations. Everyone knows that’s where it was supposed to stay. If your grandmother did anything else, that alone proves she wasn’t in her right mind.”

Belle slid off the table. She hadn’t heard this argument before, and it chilled her all the way to the pit of her stomach. “Grandmother Sarah? Not in her right mind?”

A deep furrow etched the skin between her father’s eyebrows. “That’s right. She probably had been getting
weak in the head for a long time, but we just didn’t recognize it. Obviously, though, she was no longer thinking straight.”

“Dad.” Belle put her fingertips on the table to center herself. “You know that’s not true.”

Sarah Carson’s final illness had been blessedly brief. Up until a week or so before she died, she had remained a steady source of wisdom and comfort for her whole family.

He flushed darkly. “Your mother told you to say that, didn’t she?”

“Of course not.”

“What the hell is the matter with you two? Are you feeling sorry for those interlopers? Why should we? That woman…how do we even know their story is true?”

“It wasn’t
their
story. It was Grandmother Sarah’s story.”

“The ravings of an old woman. Decades of jealousy and paranoia coming to life in some twisted, senile fiction. Believe me, your mother will probably say the same things when she’s old and living in fantasyland.”

Belle didn’t answer that one, looking away from him to stare at the middle distance.

No matter what happened, no matter how often he was seen with other women or caught in places he had no business being, Sam had always played the aggrieved husband, the martyr whose wife was prone to “imagining things.”

Once or twice, through the years, Belle had tried to make him own up to his infidelities. At age eleven, she’d even ridden her bike to his golf club just to prove
to herself that he wasn’t really there. But those moments had always backfired. For a few weeks afterward, her father had stayed home more, but he’d made her mother pay dearly, with incessant demands and a hair-trigger temper.

Pretty soon, Belle had seen the problem. Her mother could either leave him or let him do as he pleased. For some reason, Emily preferred to stay. So, for her sake, Belle had eventually adopted her mother’s posture and let the charade play out unchallenged.

“Belle, look.” His voice grew more conciliatory, but he jammed one hand in his pocket and fisted it there, so it was clear the frustration hadn’t subsided. “Do you think for one minute your grandmother would leave the diamond pendants to anyone but me? To anyone but a Carson?”

Belle smiled wryly. “Aunt Jenny is a Carson. By adoption and, as it turns out, by birth.”

That was the last straw, as she’d known it would be.

With an impulsive growl, he reached out and grabbed her wrist. “Damn it, Belle, what’s wrong with you? Has someone from their side gotten to you? Have they turned you against me?”

He held on so tightly Belle’s arm ached. She stared at him, unable to believe this was happening. No matter how he had belittled or offended Belle and her mother, he had never laid a hand on them.

Belle had always assured herself that physical abuse would have been the tipping point. If he’d ever slapped her, or shaken her, her mother would have packed up and moved out.

Now here it was, the moment of violence. Had the
revelation of his father’s secret family caused him to come completely unstrung?

“Please let go of my hand,” she said. “You’re hurting me.”

“I want an answer, damn it—”

“Belle, can you join George and me in the office for—” Matt stood at the double doors, which she’d left ajar. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were busy.”

Her father’s hand opened instantly, releasing the arm Belle had been trying to pull free. Surprised, she had to step back an inch to keep her balance, and she felt her cheeks burning.

Her father turned, face still ruddy, but somehow managing a smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said with an admirable attempt to sound sheepish and endearing. “I’m Sam Carson. Belle’s father. You must be Matt. I shouldn’t be keeping her from work, I know. I just needed to steal her for a minute. A small family matter.”

Matt leaned one shoulder against the mahogany door frame. “No problem,” he said equably. His manner was as easy and laid-back as ever. But his eyes on her dad were flinty, lacking any warmth. She had a feeling this interruption had been manufactured.

“I should go, Dad,” she said, trying not to feel sorry for him. But she knew that, under the confident facade, he was probably mortified. This had been an aberration, after all. He didn’t manhandle her routinely, though that was probably how it appeared to Matt. “I should get back to work.”

Like magic, Francie appeared at his elbow. “Mr.
Carson?” Her voice was mellifluous and deferential, but the signal in her outstretched hand was unmistakable. “I’ll be
delighted
to show you out.”

Sam had little choice. The best he could do was to appear as if he wanted to leave, anyhow. “Okay.” He glanced at his watch. “Look. I’m late already.”

He reached out and gave Belle a hug that was obviously for show. Even so, he couldn’t bring himself to make it last longer than about one and a half seconds. “Call me later?”

“I’ll try.” She couldn’t promise that she would. If he wanted to continue haranguing her about Grandmother Sarah’s mental competence, she wasn’t interested. It was a lie, and it would shame them all if he tried to pursue it.

Matt went along with Francie and Belle’s father back into the lobby, probably to make sure he didn’t refuse to get on the elevator at the last minute. Belle couldn’t bring herself to join them. She stayed in the conference room, glad of a few seconds to compose herself.

Rubbing her wrist, she stared down into the street. After a minute or two, she saw her father striding to his car, which was parked half a block downhill from the Diamante building. His movements were rigid, his body stiff. Not an encouraging sign.

“Are you all right?”

She looked up. Matt had returned to the conference-room door. “Yes, I’m fine. I’ll be right there.” She started to move.

He shook his head. “No, stay if you like. There’s no meeting. I just thought you might need…” He smiled. “An exit strategy.”

She wasn’t sure what to say, but his smile was so infectious she found herself returning it, in spite of everything.

“You were right. I did. Thank you.”

It seemed inadequate, as if he deserved a real explanation, so she tried to construct something that would be honest without stringing the family’s dirty laundry up for all to see. “My grandmother died recently, and things…things have been very mixed up. My father’s a little upset right now, but I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

“Belle…” Matt hesitated a moment, and then, as if on impulse, moved into the room and joined her at the window. The bay wasn’t very big, and it brought them close together, closer than at any time since that night eight years ago.

She found herself staring at him, registering every tiny change. He didn’t look older, exactly, though of course he was. He just looked more complicated. More real.

His thick, dark hair was shorter these days. But in the bright light, she could see the same gleaming luster—in the one wave that tickled his forehead, in his brows, in his lashes, even in the hint of stubble dusting his strong jaw.

His body was more sculpted, with more interesting angles, as if he’d shed any lingering immaturity. His face was more powerful, too, the cheekbones more pronounced and the nose more chiseled.

The sunlight picked up a few lines that had been lightly sketched across his golden skin. These eight years must have been happy ones, she thought. Around his eyes, tiny creases fanned upward, like the shadow of a thousand smiles. And on either side of his sensual mouth…not deep grooves of bitterness, like her father’s,
but subtle hints of dimples, as if his face had been designed for laughter.

She realized suddenly that he was studying her, too. She wondered what he thought of what he saw, and prayed that it wouldn’t ring any old, forgotten bells.

The silence stretched several seconds. She scoured her mind for something to say to break the odd tension that had inexplicably arced between them.

“I really am sorry about…all that.” She tried to relax her shoulders. “But you don’t have to worry. I’ll explain to my father that I can’t deal with personal issues while I’m at work.”

“What?” He tilted his head, as if he didn’t remember what they’d been talking about. The memory of him doing the exact same thing in that Halloween ballroom tugged at her midsection.

“Oh.” He chuckled. “Look, Belle. I’m not sure George has explained how we operate around here.”

“George was very thorough. And I met with HR the first day to—”

“I don’t mean paperwork and benefits.” He hesitated, as if hunting for the right words. “I mean the unspoken rules. You know? All those little personal details that make the difference between loving your job and dreading coming to work in the morning.”

“I do love my job.”

But the skepticism on his face made her smile. He obviously hadn’t forgotten how frank she’d been that night at the interview.

“Well, okay, that may be an overstatement. But I certainly don’t dread it.”

“I’m glad,” he said. “But I want you to understand that you don’t need to apologize for your father coming by. This is your career, not your prison. We will work you damn hard, but we’re always a team. With the possible exception of Francie, we’re not robo-people. We know that occasionally everyone needs to check on their kids, take their mom to the doctor, eat pizza at their desk.”

He grinned. “In fact, we
hope
you’ll eat pizza at your desk.”

She laughed, but it sounded strained even to her own ears. Oh, God, that smile was so…