All That Sparkles: The Texan Quartet (8 page)

Imogen wished he wasn’t half a world away so she could hug him. “Thank you.”

“Who are you talking to, Imogen?”

Imogen’s head shot up at her father’s voice and saw him standing at the kitchen door. She glanced at the screen and from the expression on Christian’s face she knew he’d heard him too.

“I’m talking with Christian via Skype. He’s in Australia at the moment.” She turned over her logo sketch so he couldn’t see it and checked the time. “I’m not late for brunch, am I?”

“No, I thought we’d have it in the rose garden today, since it’s so lovely outside.”

Imogen didn’t want to finish her conversation with Christian yet. “I’ll meet you there.”

“I’ll wait for you in the salon,” Remy answered and stepped inside, walking through to her sitting area.

He would hear her remaining conversation with Christian and she didn’t want him to. She sighed and glanced at the screen. “I’ve got to go.”

“Daddy’s calling?”

The tone of his voice stung. She nodded. “Maybe we can talk tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure how busy I’ll be with work. I’ll let you know.” His whole demeanor was now rigid. He wasn’t happy.

She felt a twinge of guilt and tried to shrug it off. She wasn’t going to apologize. She didn’t want her father listening in to what she said with Christian. “Take care.” She logged off.

Turning off her laptop, she got to her feet and walked into the living room. She froze. She’d forgotten she’d left all of her business planning things spread on the coffee table in there last night. Her father had her plan in his hand and he was reading it, his posture straight and his brows furrowed. She knew that posture, knew that look.

He was not happy.

She said, “Papa, I’m ready. Shall we go?”

For a moment he didn’t respond and then slowly he turned to her. “What is this?”

Imogen waved a hand. “Oh, something I’ve been working on. Nothing, really. I’m starved and we don’t want Mrs. Povey’s breakfast to get cold.”

“Nothing? So it would not matter if I threw it in the bin?” He made as if to screw it up.

Imogen took a couple of steps forward, one arm outstretched. “Don’t.” She’d scribbled a lot of notes down last night and hadn’t transferred them to the computer yet.

“Then I suggest you tell me what it is.”

Her father’s face held a world full of disappointment and hurt. Imogen hated it.

Defeated, she slumped her shoulders. “It’s my business plan.”

“Stand up straight, Imogen. Posture is everything.”

Imogen straightened automatically.

“Why do you need a business plan? You have Tour de Force. Is it not keeping you busy enough?”

“Papa, can we discuss this over breakfast?”

“No, we will discuss this now.” He stood straight and proud, his signature defensive posture.

She took the business plan from his hand. “You know I’ve been playing with my own designs,” she began.

“Playing? You think what I do is
playing
?”

“No, Papa.” She had to be careful. Everything she said was going to cause him offense. “What I meant was doing some designs of my own. I showed some of them to you a couple of weeks ago and you said they would never suit Tour de Force.”

“I remember. They were too common.” He sniffed.

Imogen ignored the sting his words caused. “Well I like them, and I was exploring whether I could produce my own label. Hence the business plan.”

“Of course you
could
,” her father said. “But why would you
want
to? Tour de Force is the pinnacle of fashion.”

Imogen suppressed a sigh, knowing it would annoy her father. “Tour de Force is the pinnacle of couture fashion, Papa. I want to design clothes my friends can afford, clothes my friends will like.”

“Your friends do not like Tour de Force?”

“They like it, but it’s not the type of thing they would wear to work, or to the movies.” She wasn’t sure if she could get him to understand.

Her father harrumphed. “If you do this thing,” he said waving toward the business plan, “you will not have time for Tour de Force.”

She took hold of his hand. “I know, Papa.”

“Tour de Force will be yours when I die. It is my legacy to you. You need to run it when I go.”

He wasn’t really listening to her. “Papa, Tour de Force is your baby, your style. It’s not mine.”

She might as well have stabbed him in the heart for the look of shock and outrage he gave her.

“
Non non non
! Everything I have done, I have done for you. You cannot refuse. Who else can it go to?”

Imogen didn’t dare suggest he could make his workers shareholders. People like Abigail would carry on the Tour de Force brand gladly. “Once I’m established, and with the right team, there is no reason why I couldn’t run both Tour de Force and my own label.”

“
Non
. I will not have your commonplace designs associated with Tour de Force.”

He clammed up and she was beginning to think he wasn’t going to speak again when he said, “If you insist on doing this, you will break my heart. I have slaved for decades to provide for you, to be both mother and father to you, to ensure you never went without.” His voice was tight with pain. “Tour de Force is yours. Why do you think I have made sure you learned every aspect of the business? It is not merely to give you something to do.” His accent thickened. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“No, Papa!” Not even when she’d proposed moving out of home had her father been so upset.

“Then we shall have no more talk of this matter.”

She couldn’t let it go. She had to make him understand. “But Papa – ”

“
Ça suffit!
” he said and he walked out of her house.

Imogen sank into the couch and winced as the door slammed shut behind him. What had got into him? She understood why he wanted her to take over Tour de Force, but why was he so against her own designs? She was old enough to do her own thing. She didn’t need his permission.

Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them away. She’d cried too much of late. What she needed to do was go for a walk, clear her head.

She grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl as she left her house and wandered down the path to her secret garden. She pushed through the doorway and found her tree house where it had always been, high in the branches of an ancient tree. The ladder still seemed sturdy enough, so she climbed up, squeezing through the trapdoor into the first story. The opening had definitely shrunk since the last time she made the climb.

Cautiously she checked the timbers of the tree house; they seemed to be in good condition. She opened the window and perched on the window seat that looked out between the branches and over the garden.

The tree house was a testament to her father’s love and the things he’d done for her over the years. She might not have had many friends but her father had given her the tree house and her own secret area of the garden when she’d asked for it.

He was right: he had provided for her. She’d led a very sheltered but affluent life. Was it selfish to want more? There would be hundreds of people in the fashion world who would jump at the chance to swap places with her, to have the opportunity to take over at Tour de Force, even if their own taste differed from Remy Fontaine’s.

Was she just a spoiled, contrary child?

Imogen perched her forearms on the window frame and leaned out.

She hadn’t thought her desire to have her own label was controversial. She loved Tour de Force, but it wasn’t her; it would never be her. Her creativity was stifled there and she wanted to reach out, do something new, but now it seemed she’d never be able to do that while her father was alive.

What was she going to do?

Was his concern more about their different tastes as designers, or the fact that she was making new friends: first Libby and Adrian, then George and Christian? She’d spent more time away from the guesthouse than she usually did.

Was he worried he would lose her now that she was beginning to branch out and have her own ideas? Did he want to force her to stay? Imogen was all the family Remy had and he had no close friends. Imogen was pretty sure her mother’s death all those years earlier had scarred him, though he rarely talked about her death, only her life; he’d loved his wife deeply and desperately. Her father reminded her often of how much she resembled her mother. Perhaps he felt his wife was still nearby when Imogen was around.

Imogen wished she’d known her mother, but she’d died only days after Imogen was born. Her father never told her the cause of death; he’d always just got upset and told her to leave it be when she’d asked about it.

Imogen couldn’t stand to see her father upset. It was why she’d given in to him so often, let him talk her out of doing things she wanted to do.

Would she let him this time?

From her perch in the tree she saw his car go down the drive. That meant only Mrs. Povey would be in the house, probably cleaning up from brunch before having her afternoon off.

Mrs. Povey.

The cook had been around since Imogen could remember. Perhaps she would know a little more about what happened in the past. Imogen had never asked her because her father had always said Fontaine business was no one’s business but the Fontaines’.

But this was too important.

She shut the windows and latched the trapdoor behind herself before shimmying down the ladder and hurrying across to the big house. She entered through the kitchen door to find Mrs. Povey finishing the dishes.

“Imogen, how lovely to see you. Your father said you were ill.”

“I’m fine. We had a bit of an argument,” Imogen said, picking up a dish towel and helping her dry the rest of the dishes.

Mrs. Povey turned to her. “You two never argue.”

Imogen murmured in agreement. “Mrs. Povey, how long have you worked here?”

Mrs. Povey looked surprised. “Since just before you were born. Your dad hired me to help cook when your mother was too tired from the pregnancy.”

Imogen felt hope lift inside her. “Was it a bad pregnancy for her?”

“I wouldn’t say bad as such. She’d miscarried twice before and was being extra careful with you.”

“She had trouble carrying to term?” Imogen asked.

“You should be asking your father, not me.” The older woman hung up her dish towel and concentrated on wiping down the already clean bench.

“He won’t talk to me about it. He never would.”

Mrs. Povey shook her head sadly. “I can’t tell you, Imogen. He said if I spoke about that time he would fire me and he meant it. I’m too old to find a new job and I like this one.”

Imogen stared.
Fire
her? For telling her about her mother? She wasn’t expecting that at all.

There was one place that might have answers: her father’s study. “I might go upstairs for a while, wait until Papa comes home.”

Mrs. Povey looked at her until Imogen dropped her gaze. “You could never lie, Imogen. Please don’t do whatever you’re thinking about doing. At least not while I’m here. I do still need this job.”

Imogen couldn’t defy her. “All right.” She gave the cook a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you anyway.”

She left the house and wandered back to her place. She was no good at investigative stuff; maybe she should get Piper’s help.

The thought of Piper gave her an idea. When her mother died, her father was already a famous designer. The death of his wife would have surely made the news, if only in Houston. Hurrying inside she turned on her laptop, hoping some of the old editions had been digitized.

She searched for her mother’s name and came up with articles just mentioning her as Remy’s late wife.

She would have to go to the library or even the paper’s archives. On a mission now, she rang Piper.

“Does your paper keep archives of their previous editions?” she asked when Piper answered.

“Of course.”

“Can you get me access to them?”

“What are you searching for?”

Imogen told Piper about her argument with her father and her conversation with Mrs. Povey. “I need to find out more.”

“Oh, honey. Of course you do.” Her voice was sympathetic. “How about you meet me at the paper in an hour?”

Imogen’s heart beat faster. “You can get in today?”

“There’s always someone there,” she said. “What date did your mom die?”

Imogen told her.

“All right. I’ll meet you there soon.”

Imogen hung up, excited and afraid. What if her father was hiding the information for a good reason? Did she really want to know the truth?

Of course she did. She had to figure out why he was so desperate to keep her by his side.

She grabbed a notebook and her bag and headed into town.

*

Piper let her into the
Houston Age
building when she arrived and gave her a big hug. “All the archives are on microfilm. I’ve found the one for that period. It shouldn’t take long to find something.”

They arrived at a room set up with several microfilm machines. “Do you know how to work these things?” asked Imogen.

Piper laughed. “Of course. I sometimes need to go back to the old information when I’m researching a story. They’re slowly digitizing everything but there’s a big backlog.” While she talked she fed a roll of film into the machine and then fiddled with some knobs to get it to work. “We’ll start with the day of her death and then go through the days afterward. It may have taken a while for the news to break.” She indicated a chair. “Take a seat.”

Imogen sat and as the screen in front of them lit up with the image of the front page the day her mother had died, she leaned forward to read. Piper slowly scrolled through the paper, but there was no mention of the Fontaines.

The next day was more fruitful. Only a few pages in was an article about how Imogen’s mother had died suddenly. There was a picture of both her mother and father from happier days. Piper printed the page for Imogen.

The day after contained an obituary for Frances Fontaine.

Frances Margaret Fontaine (nee Ryder) died from complications with her pregnancy on Tuesday night. She was thirty-three. She is survived by her husband, owner of Tour de Force, fashion designer Remy Fontaine, and their infant daughter, Imogen Rae.

Frances grew up in Houston, daughter to Julie and Robert Ryder, sister to Allen and Peter. She enjoyed traveling and spent several years backpacking around Europe, where she met her future husband, Remy Fontaine.

Upon her marriage she became an active philanthropist, organizing various charity events and speaking publicly for the under-privileged. She was a much loved member of the community.

Imogen didn’t read any further. She stared at the screen as the shocks hit one after another.

Her mother had died because of her.

What had happened? Why had her father never said anything?

It was a wonder he could
stand
Imogen, considering she’d caused the death of his one true love.

“You okay, Imogen?” Piper’s cautious query brought her back to the room.

“No.” She slumped down in the chair in response to the other shock.

She had a family.

Her mother had had parents and brothers – people Imogen had never known existed. Her father had always said she had no family on either side.

Were they still alive? She hoped so. She’d always longed for cousins to play with.

But why had he kept them a secret? Perhaps her mother hadn’t got along with them.

The confusion was a whirlpool in her mind. It made no sense. What else was her father hiding from her?

“Do you want to keep looking?”

Did she? She wasn’t sure she had the strength.

“You look.” Imogen honestly didn’t think she would take anything in.

“Sure.”

It didn’t take long for Piper to skim through a few more days of papers; there was only a small article about the funeral, which she printed. She turned off the machine and put the microfilm back in the cabinet. “Do you want to come to my place?”

Imogen nodded. The thought of returning to the chateau made her feel ill. She needed time away from Remy – time to figure out what the hell was going on.

They each drove to Piper’s apartment but Imogen didn’t remember the journey. She parked outside the building and joined her friend at the front door. Piper went straight through to the kitchen and put on the kettle. “Do you want something stronger?”

Imogen did, but she also wanted a clear head to think. “No.”

Piper busied herself making the drinks. “I didn’t know you had relatives on your mother’s side.”

“Neither did I.” Her voice was flat.

Piper gaped at her. “What?”

“Papa always swore there was no family. None on his side, none on her side.” So what had happened to them? Had they died as well?

“Wow. I always knew your father was controlling, but this is ridiculous.”

“We don’t know the reason yet.” Ugh. She was still coming to his defense – it was her automatic reaction. He’d been the only one in her life for so long, the only one she could rely on, and now … She didn’t know what he was.

“Do you want to find out?”

Imogen hesitated. It could get worse but she might as well keep going. “Yes.”

“Are you going to confront your father?”

Imogen shuddered. He was already mad at her simply because she wanted her independence. How would he react when he found out she’d been digging up the past? Her head ached.

“Not yet.” She took the mug Piper handed her and sank down on her sofa. She blew into it, but her hands were shaking. Carefully she put the tea down on the coffee table, took a deep shuddery breath and calmed herself.

“I’m here for you, honey.” Piper’s voice was full of sympathy and strength. “I can do some investigation if you like.”

“Yes, please.” She didn’t want to do it on her own. She curled her feet up underneath herself on the couch. Christian’s face flashed across her mind. She’d love a hug from him right now.

“I’ll let you know what I find.”

They sat quietly while they sipped their drinks. Imogen’s thoughts kept going around in a loop: about her father lying to her again and again; about her mother, about her family, about Christian. Was he even the man she believed him to be?

“So,” Piper said with a cautious smile, “I’ve been dying to ask you something.”

Her eyes twinkled and Imogen knew she was trying to lighten the mood. “Yes?”

“Have you seen Chris lately?” She waggled her eyebrows in a suggestive way.

“As a matter of fact, we Skyped this morning.”

“Skyped? Sounds kinky. Tell me more.” She leaned forward, eyes eager.

Imogen laughed and let herself be distracted for a while. Her issues weren’t going to go away any time soon, but she needed some relief.

“Well, it’s like this …”

*

Imogen wanted to call in sick on Monday; she didn’t want to see her father and pretend everything was all right, but her sense of loyalty was too strong. She shut herself in her office and spent the morning on the phone, calling their stockists and confirming they would take this year’s winter collection, and getting numbers.

She didn’t mind this kind of work. She’d formed good relationships with the retailers she dealt with and the phone calls were as much about networking and catching up with news as about selling. Many of the people she spoke with knew what would sell and what wouldn’t; they’d tell her which were their most popular items and what people were looking for. It often gave her ideas for the next season’s collection.

Then she confirmed the Tour de Force table numbers for a big charity fashion event being held on Friday. In a fit of defiance she added an extra ticket. If Christian wasn’t back by then, she was sure Piper would jump at the chance. And that way Imogen wouldn’t have to spend the night on her father’s arm.