Where Rivers Part (29 page)

 46 

H
er father invited her in and she moved through the door, taking in the familiar décor she hadn't seen in months. Her mother's bookcases, her wedding photo in a frame on the table by the sofa, the tiny wooden cross hanging on the wall near the entry to the kitchen.

And her slippers.

Her father cleared his throat, noticing that she saw them. “Uh—please, sit down,” he said with a formality you'd use with a guest. “Can I get you some coffee?”

She nodded but remained standing. It felt unnerving to be here in this house with him after so many months. It was overwhelming, so many memories . . . and regrets.

He picked up on how she felt. She could tell from his apprehensive smile before he headed for the kitchen.

She supposed he'd seen the news, watched the press conference. Did he believe them? she wondered.

He quickly returned with a mug in his hand. “I haven't changed much around here,” he said, as if hoping that might earn him points. “Guess I just liked the way she had it.”

She nodded again and took a sip from the steaming cup. “The
flower beds look nice,” she offered. “Are those African marigolds?”

His eyes sparked with pleasure. “Yes, your mom liked those. Planted them every year.” He motioned her to sit down.

This time she sank into the sofa, leaning back against the afghan her mother had crocheted. If she closed her eyes, she could still smell her presence. Her father sat in an armchair next to the window overlooking the golf course.

“I have to admit, this is a surprise.” He smoothed his pajama bottoms. “If I'd known you were coming, I'd have dressed up a little more.” His attempt at humor fell flat.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for several seconds, neither of them acknowledging why she'd shown up at his door—though the issue permeated the empty space between them like the proverbial elephant in the room.

Her father set his coffee mug on the table. He leaned forward and rubbed his chin. “Look, JuJu, I need to say something.”

She stiffened.

His eyes probed her own. “I'm so sorry about that day. Wish I could take it all back.” He shook his head. “I've asked myself a thousand times why I reacted—”

“I wish Mom were here.”

It was out of Juliet's mouth before she could censor herself. What a stupid thing to say. Callous. He was trying to apologize.

She faltered. “What I meant to say is how much I wish she were sitting here with us, but I know what she'd say.” She looked at him then, with genuine sorrow. “Look, Dad, I've been angry with you for so long, anything else just seems awkward.”

His eyes softened. “I know what you mean. I picked up the phone so many times to call you but just didn't know what to say. Or if you'd even talk to me.”

She swallowed the knot in her throat and forced a laugh. “Ha, what would give you
that
impression?”

He grinned at that.

She slid their wedding photo from the table, letting her fingers trace her mother's face. “She really loved you, you know.”

“Your mother was a good woman. Carol was far better than I deserved.”

Juliet screwed up her mouth as if to say, “You're joking, right? Of course you didn't deserve her.” But her father wasn't joking. She needed to learn to let all that go.

Somehow.

“You look so much like her, Juliet. It nearly takes my breath away.”

She didn't know what to say to that, so she didn't say anything at all. Instead, she stared at the floor and fingered her hair, trying to summon the courage to admit why she was here.

“Dad,” she managed. “I—I'm in trouble.”

“I saw the news.”

She looked up, miserable. “They twisted everything. Made all my actions out to be something sinister, when in fact I'd confronted them about what I'd uncovered.” Her voice snagged, and tears sprang to her eyes. She struggled to get control of her emotions even as her father moved to her side and placed his arms around her shoulders.

His touch created an ache so deep it felt bottomless.

As if she were ten years old, he lifted her chin. “Don't worry, JuJu. Everything is going to be all right.”

She opened up and spilled about the envelope left on her car, how she'd recently learned it was from Alva Jacobs. “She had a set of universal keys, and she wasn't afraid to use them,” she told him. “She found the analysis report in Greer Latham's top desk drawer, laying on top of his pencils. The way she figured things, the company's top sales executive wouldn't have reason to tuck a lab report away like that, unless there was something suspicious going on. Especially after she overheard yelling and saw Robin
Ford, the former QA director, storm out of Alexa's office. So she made a copy and hid it away.”

She dug in her purse and handed her father the report.

He examined it carefully. “Everything's within range,” he said, scowling.

“I know. The same night I found that on my car, Dr. Breslin alerted me about the outdated pallet in the warehouse.”

“The tainted product.”

She nodded. “I audited everything—thoroughly examined all our systems. Everything checked out.” She pointed to the paper in his hand. “As you can see from that report, none of the microbial counts were off. Even when they should have been.”

Her dad tapped his nose in thought for several seconds, then dropped his hand and looked at her. “And you confronted Alexa Carmichael?”

“Yes—which led to the damaging news conference.”

Her father slowly nodded.

“There's no evidence to counter what they say happened—or about me,” she said, feeling panicked all over again. She'd come to him for help, but how was he going to fix this mess?

“Who else knows about this?”

“Malcolm—oh, and Robin Ford's husband.” She explained how she'd found the number and called, and what she'd sadly learned. That her predecessor was dead.

That news seemed to alarm her father. “You know where this guy lives?”

“I don't have an address, but somewhere in Gruene.”

Her father grabbed his coffee mug and stood. “Well, I want to talk to him.”

“I don't think he will. He's really angry at the company.”

“You underestimate me.” He turned for the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “I'm not going to offer the poor chap any choice.”

 47 

B
y ten o'clock, she'd showered and her dad picked her up at her condominium. “Nice place, JuJu,” he said, looking around. “Great view.”

She waited for the critical comment she knew would follow, and her father didn't disappoint. “But your air conditioning bill must be atrocious with those windows.”

She shrugged. “Not really.”

Within fifteen minutes, they'd packed her company files, Oliver Ford's address, and their tenuous truce into the car and headed north.

After pulling through a McDonald's for breakfast sandwiches and coffee, her father turned to her. “I thought we'd take the back way to Gruene.”

She unwrapped her Egg McMuffin and checked to make sure the cheese had been left off like she'd requested. “The freeway's faster.”

“Not really,” he said, rolling up the window. He eased his car through the egress into traffic and merged into the left lane.

She unwrapped his egg biscuit. “How can you say the freeway's not faster? It's closer and the speed limit is much higher.”

Her father's grip on the steering wheel tightened.

“It doesn't matter, I guess,” she conceded, handing over his breakfast sandwich. “You're driving.”

They passed a tattered strip mall, the kind that had once been filled with promising new retail shops but over time had become worn, now many of them empty and boarded up.

“So, how are things at the university?” she asked between bites, in an attempt to fill the silence.

“Eh, administration's focus has turned to technology. They want every lecture in electronic form with digital illustrations. My presentations are now turned into webinars, and students log in from home and watch whenever it's convenient.” He juggled his sandwich while changing lanes and gave her a halfhearted grin. “They built me a Facebook page and want me to start interacting more with the public, advocating for the university and their fund-raising efforts. Oh, and I'm supposed to start nailing some of my articles to some board on the internet,” he said. “Whatever the Tom Pete that's all about.”

“Pinterest.”

“Huh?”

“Pinterest,” she repeated, scrunching her wrapper and throwing it in the empty bag at her feet. “I can help you if you want.”

He shook his head and handed her his empty wrapper. “Nah, I've got some interns willing to step up. If I play my cards right, I can push all those time-waster projects into their laps.”

Even though her first thought was,
Yeah, what's new?
Juliet was determined to keep her cool. The interns could be of the male persuasion, she tried to tell herself as they made their way through the outskirts of town and the scenery became more rural.

Perhaps it'd be best to change the subject.

She handed him the coffee. “How do you like your Jetta?” He and her mother had purchased a hybrid Volkswagen early last fall, mocha-colored with a cream top. Her mom wanted the light blue one, claiming this car made her feel like she was driving around a cup of hot chocolate topped with marshmallows. But in the end she'd let him have his way.

Her father took a quick sip, then launched into a diatribe about global warming, claiming an overwhelming majority of climate scientists agreed that human activity, and primarily cars run on fossil fuels, were to blame.

She listened, staring straight ahead at the sun-dappled winding, narrow road, knowing from memory that up ahead were blind curves and drop-offs that could send a car flipping end over end down a jagged limestone crag.

“These vehicles run better too. With 170 horsepower, this baby tops off at nearly fifty miles per gallon.” His face turned indignant. “So, when are you going to get rid of that gas-guzzling Jeep of yours?”

“I think I need to get employed again before I consider buying another car,” she said, maneuvering the conversation carefully.

This served as an invitation for what she knew would eventually come.

“Look, JuJu, I'm sorry you're in this mess. But in some ways, it's just as well.” He reached over and manually turned on the radio, ignoring the automated button she knew was next to his washer switch. Despite what the manual said, he always had to do things his way. “You knew working for a profit-driven enterprise held risk. Your talents are far better utilized elsewhere.”

His tired attitude was a living, breathing, hurtful thing. She wanted to let his comments pass without argument, but couldn't. “I did a lot of good at Larimar Springs,” she pointed out. “I upgraded the lab and incorporated state-of-the-art processes. I utilized my expertise and educated a team of lab technicians, instituting a culture of heightened awareness of the need for food safety.” Reciting her accomplishments emboldened her confidence, her self-worth. She barreled on, letting her comments pick up steam. “Despite the outbreak, many believe my contributions raised the bar. And I'd hate to think what might have happened in this community had I not been the one at the helm when it all broke loose. Many more people would've likely fallen victim, that's what would have happened.”

She wanted him to answer, felt herself needling him to further her point. But he said nothing in return. Even so, she knew what he was thinking.

She'd been a terrible disappointment on many levels. Her career choice, certainly. Likely the way she'd handled everything with the investigation team. She even drove the wrong car.

Some things would never change. She could frost this rock, but the stone would never be a cupcake.

Her father nosed his vehicle up against a line of cars trailing a slow-moving tractor that pulled a flatbed loaded with bails of stone, the kind used in landscaping. He lifted his wrist and checked his watch. Looking frustrated, he laid on the horn.

Her hands balled into fists. “They can't move any faster.”

As if she'd said nothing, he honked again and swerved into the oncoming lane in an attempt to get around the cars that stalled their progress. That was when she saw he was no longer wearing his wedding ring.

In angry silence, she turned and stared out the window at the brown countryside, with only an occasional splotch of green from cedar trees too misshapen to ever be considered as Christmas trees.

Oblivious to her darkening mood, her father punched the gas and passed the line of cars, swerving back into their own lane at the last minute, just missing an oncoming motor home.

She gripped the dash.

“JuJu, you may have hoped to make a difference,” he continued before she could yell for him to be careful. “But a couple of bad apples motivated by greed can spoil the pie.”

Something inside her head snapped. She'd experienced all of this a hundred times, a thousand times.

She pointed up ahead, to a lane leading to a million-dollar house perched on a distant ridge with hill country stone turrets to capture the view. “Dad, pull over.”

He glanced at her, confused.

“Just pull over,” she repeated.

He quickly glanced in the rearview mirror and did as she asked, pulling the car several hundred yards up the lane to a massive iron gate mounted in stone columns. “Are you sick? Do you need some water?”

Without answering, she barely waited for the car to come to a stop before she bolted out the door and ran as hard as she could in the direction of the stone fence bordering the property. When she reached the stone border and could go no farther, she folded at the base of a scrub oak and buried her face in her hands. In the distance, she heard cars passing out on the highway.

Seconds later, her dad came up behind her, heaving and out of breath. “JuJu? What's wrong?”

She angrily shook her head. “Quit calling me that!”

“Calling you what?”

“I'm thirty-three years old. I graduated from Cornell University with honors. I hold a PhD in epidemiology and public health, and up until just recently, I garnered great respect for my work on prevention and control of foodborne illnesses.” Her fist pounded the hard dirt beside her. “My name is Juliet.
Doctor
Juliet Ryan.”

She fell to uncontrollable sobs, great wracking heaves of sobs. It was all too much—too many hopes and regrets and deep disappointment. Her heart was raw and exposed, sitting in the ashes of her burned dreams. Worse—her father's lack of faith in her wounded as deeply as any sword thrust in her gut.

She sensed more than saw her dad sink to her side. He sat quiet as she cried herself out.

Finally, her lungs filled with ragged breaths, and she rested her burning eyes against her arms.

Birds sang overhead. Any other time, she'd marvel at the idyllic sound. Today, she simply lifted her face and brushed her nose with her hand.

She glanced over at her father then. He stared out at cars pass
ing on the highway, his eyes red-rimmed. A pained look etched across his face.

“I know I failed you, Juliet. And I'm sorry.”

Tears filled her eyes again. She let his words sink in. Oddly, the apology she'd long waited for only served to highlight her own shortcomings.

Her father wasn't entirely to blame for their broken relationship. He had a way of nailing her vulnerabilities to the wall, and frankly, she didn't like looking at them. Sandy was right. He couldn't hurt her like this if she didn't care what he thought.

She gave a slight shrug. “Being so angry at you was fairly constructive, I suppose—I got a lot done. You were also my scapegoat anytime things went wrong. I could blame you—it was all your fault.”

She reached and took his hand.

His face turned earnest and unguarded. “I get up every morning and pray I can get through the day without somebody.” He swallowed against tears filling his own eyes. “I need you, kiddo. If you only knew how much.”

Her throat knotted. She leaned her head against his chest and whispered, “That's the first time I've ever heard you say that.”

He squeezed her hand. “And I'm sorry for that too.”