By Hook or By Crook (2 page)

“No! And I’m not going to, either!” Daisy’s eruption was predictable, but still unpleasant. “You think everyone is after my money. You don’t think anyone might want me for myself, do you?”

“Now, that’s not true,” she began in a soothing tone. “I just wonder about this guy—”

“Pock! His name is Pock. He’s not ‘this guy,’ you know.”

Privately, Ivy didn’t think “Pock” counted as much of a name, but she didn’t point that out to her sister. “Now, don’t get upset—”

“You think that because of what happened to you, that it’s going to happen to me, too!” Daisy charged. “Well, it won’t! Pock loves me, and I love him! Nothing is going to keep us from being together.”

The reference to Daniel still hurt, after all these years. Leave it to her sister to throw that back in her face. “Daisy, I didn’t say—”

“God!” her sister interjected, as if she had never spoken. “I would have expected this from Dad. That’s why I haven’t told him, but I would have thought you would be more understanding.”

“You haven’t told Dad?” Ivy echoed. She rubbed the bridge of her nose between two fingers. Could this get any worse?

“No, because I know exactly what kind of reaction I’ll get from him. He’s even worse than you are. No wonder you two get along. You’re just alike.”

“Now, wait a minute.” Daisy loved their father, but she obviously didn’t intend the remark as a compliment. Both sisters’ relationships with him were too strained for that.

But her sister barreled on like a runaway train on a downhill track. Nothing could stop her. “Pock and I are getting married this weekend. We’re in Vegas. He’s been flying out here a lot, trying to get a break on the mixed martial arts circuit here. He’s got a fight in Vegas at the Bellisimo tomorrow night, so we’ll be here anyway. It’s the big break in MMA he’s been waiting for. It’s a huge opportunity!”

“Why Vegas? Can’t Pock fight in Chicago?” Ivy asked, alarmed by the thought of her sister on the loose in Vegas, land of twenty-four-hour wedding chapels, with her thug boyfriend in tow. If ever she’d heard a recipe for disaster...

“He’s been fighting a lot on the Midwest circuit, but Vegas is the big-time. If he ever wants to get anywhere, he has to fight here. And since we’re here, we thought we’d get married, since Vegas is so romantic.”

Ivy could think of a dozen cities more romantic than Vegas—Akron, Ohio came to mind—but she didn’t argue.

“We’re getting married whether you like it or not. I’m sorry you can’t be here, but knowing how you feel, I guess it’s better that you not attend. You’ve never supported me anyway,” Daisy said with a sniff. “You always take Dad’s side in everything!”

God, but her sister had a flair for the dramatic. “Daisy, listen for a minute! I only want you to think this through. You’ve barely known the guy any time at all. None of us have even met him. What’s the rush? At least let Mr. Anderson draw something up, something that will protect you financially should something happen.”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Daisy said flatly, and Ivy could hear the finality in her sister’s voice. “We’re going to get married, and that’s final. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

Ivy seized on this revelation. “Weeks? But doesn’t Pock have a job as a bouncer or something?”

Daisy sighed. “He’s a security guard at a bar.”

Ivy silently wondered what the difference was, but she didn’t ask and Daisy didn’t volunteer the information. She leaned back, causing her chair to creak noisily in the silent library. “Still, doesn’t he have to get back to work?”

“He quit that job. I’ve explained to him that if he really wants to make it in MMA, he’s got to give it his all, while he’s still young. He’s not going to get anywhere working at a Chicago bar. We’re staying in Vegas. We’ll get an apartment soon.”

Suspicions rising, she pounced. “And how are you two going to live while he pursues his dreams?” Ivy asked, acid etching her tone. Silence buzzed for a few seconds. Like a bloodhound on the scent, she could sense her sister’s reluctance to answer the question.

“He makes some money fighting. I’ll be able to support him on my allowance from Dad, of course, until his fighting career takes off. But that’s
not
why he’s marrying me,” Daisy insisted.

Hearing her sister’s heartbreaking, willful assurance made Ivy’s heart sink. She closed her eyes briefly. A part of her sympathized. Her little sister might act tough, but she reminded Ivy of herself a few years ago—in love, maybe for the first time, and eager to get started on adulthood sooner rather than later. Eager to disprove a cold, distant father who always looked on the bleak side and warned about the dangers of a world out to take your money. Lacking the life experience to realize that he was, more often than not, right.

Daisy was only twenty-three years old. At twenty-eight, Ivy felt immeasurably older and wiser.

“Oh, Daisy,” Ivy said, unable to keep the pity from her voice.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” Daisy warned. “If anything, I should feel sorry for you. You’re all alone, and you probably always will be!” In the background, Ivy heard a horn honking. “Oh, that’s him! I’ve gotta go! Tell Dad I’ll see him in a couple of weeks, okay? Bye!”

“Daisy, wait. Don’t hang—” The line went dead before she could complete her sentence.

Damn her irresponsible sister. She’d simply had to get in one more zinger before she let go. Ivy set the phone down on the table with a thunk, chewing her lower lip pensively. Why was it impossible for them to have a calm, adult conversation? She dialed Daisy, but got no answer. She’d try again in a minute.

Trying to shake off her hurt and get back to work, she used her cell phone camera to take photos of the engraving, but the incident with Daisy had broken the magical spell she always fell under while viewing one of Dürer’s originals. While she methodically took photos and turned pages, her mind incessantly replayed their conversation.

Her sister’s words had painted a pretty clear picture of how she perceived Ivy, and it wasn’t flattering. Daisy saw her as bitter, controlling, and unhappy.

But that wasn’t true! She had simply learned from her hard experience with Daniel, and she would
not
repeat the same mistakes, or let her sister repeat them, either. She cared about her sister and only wanted to help. Unable to forget their confrontation, she redialed her sister, but Daisy still didn’t pick up. Obviously, she hadn’t gotten over her fury yet.

She left her phone out on the work table where she could answer it quickly if Daisy called again, but she needed to get back to the Bible. The Dobbins Library, devoted to the preservation and study of rare books, allowed scholars only a two-hour time frame to study their most precious works. Distracted by Daisy, she’d wasted too much time already. She’d better get busy.

She tried her best to focus on her work, stopping periodically to place unanswered calls to Daisy, but by the time she checked the Bible back in, she’d started to truly worry.

“I hope you found everything to your satisfaction, Ms. Smithson,” the curator said with a nod. “You can always let me know if there is anything I can do to assist.” She knew the woman meant well, but Ivy found the deferential treatment slightly irritating. Would the woman be so solicitous if her father wasn’t a deep-pocket donor to the Dobbins Library? She doubted it.

“Yes, Beverly, everything was perfect. Thank you. Goodbye.”

She didn’t realize the curator had followed her halfway down the hall until she felt a hand on her arm. She halted, turning to see Beverly hovering. She didn’t try to halt the flight of her brows upward—she wasn’t the type of person other people put their hands on casually.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said, hastily withdrawing her hand. “I couldn’t get your attention. I called your name, but you didn’t answer.”

“It’s okay, Beverly,” she said, although it wasn’t. “I’m preoccupied with other things. What did you need?”

“I wanted to talk to you about the Dürer rhino sketch.”

“Yes?”

“Have you given any more thought to the discussion we had a few months ago?”

“Discussion?” Ivy repeated, her thoughts drifting back to her sister. She checked her watch, a diamond-studded Ebel her father had gotten her for Christmas last year. Five p.m. The drive to Chicago took three hours. Surely by the time she arrived home, she could get Daisy to pick up the phone.

“Yes, about the collector.” Beverly’s peered at her expectantly from behind rimless glasses, and Ivy blinked.

“Oh, of course. You know a collector who wants to purchase the rhino sketch. I remember now. Well, I’m sorry. My thoughts haven’t changed. It’s not for sale.”

“This particular collector, who wishes to remain anonymous, has informed me that cost is no object. He’s willing to pay whatever it takes to get that sketch.”

“And you can tell the collector that money is no object to me, either,” Ivy said, trying to keep her voice friendly. Did Beverly really think money mattered to a Smithson? “That sketch was a gift from my father for my sixteenth birthday. I treasure it.”

“Of course, this collector is well aware of its special nature,” the curator hastened to add. “If you’re worried about the integrity of the sketch, let me assure you that I would never speak on behalf of anyone who wouldn’t treat it with utmost care.”

Was this woman not listening? “Beverly, that’s not the point. That sketch was a special gift from my father. It means a lot to me. I would never offend my father by selling it.”

“Oh. Oh! Of course, we would never want to do anything that would offend Mr. Smithson.” The curator blinked several times, finally realizing the dangerous ground onto which she’d trod. “Or you, either.” The last bit, added as an afterthought, let Ivy know where she stood. “But if you change your mind—”

“I won’t,” Ivy said politely. “Good day, Beverly.”

She left the woman sputtering and loaded her gear into her car. On the highway, she dialed Daisy’s number again and again, to no avail.

By the time she arrived in the Chicago suburbs, worry had made her queasy. After all, she couldn’t talk sense into her sister if she couldn’t talk to her at all. Knowing she had to drive by her father’s building to get to her own Lakeshore Drive high-rise condo, she pondered the situation. On one hand, Daisy was legally an adult. If she wanted to elope, she had every right to do so.

On the other hand, marriage to Pock would be a disaster, one that would infuriate their father and, more importantly, wreck Daisy’s future.

Richard Smithson wouldn’t take this lying down. He would do everything in his power to stop the marriage if he had advance notice. Her hands tightened on the wheel. She didn’t even want to imagine his reaction if the marriage actually took place. If Daisy thought he’d eventually calm down and give them his blessing, she was crazy. He would pry them apart, and cutting her off entirely without an allowance wasn’t out of the question.

Resolute, she pushed thoughts of her father’s anger out of her mind. This marriage would be a huge mistake for her sister, but Ivy couldn’t stop it alone. To thwart this mad disaster, she’d have to tell their father.

For all the suffering Daniel had put her through, at least Ivy had been spared the humiliation of actually marrying him. She had found out about his true motives before she was legally bound to him. She had to open Daisy’s eyes, too.

Ivy turned onto Division Street, where her father’s building was located. In the underground parking garage, she showed her security pass to the guard, who waved her through with a tip of his cap. She parked in her reserved spot and made her way into the white marble lobby, walking under the modernist chandelier her mother used to tease her father about, back when the building had been just his corporate office and not his home too.

“That chandelier looks like a stack of ice cubes dangling from the ceiling,” her mother had scolded. Her father had only laughed. Since Mom died, he rarely laughed.

Her father had bought this building years ago. Eighty-six floors of commercial, residential, and retail space, located blocks from Lake Michigan. He leased much of it out, but he reserved the top twenty floors for the headquarters of his commercial real estate empire. He kept the penthouse floor for his personal residence.

For a man who lived to work, the building, which contained a grocery store, mall, movie theater, post office, swimming pool, and private gym, was a very convenient arrangement. Richard Smithson never had to leave the office if he didn’t want to, and he rarely did, except for the occasional business trip. Most of the time, however, his business associates came to him.

She took the elevator to the penthouse suite, where a guard, stone-faced with boredom, sat full-time behind a desk in the security foyer.

“Hello, Marshall,” she greeted the guard. “Can you tell Father I’m here? I know it’s late, but it’s important.”

“Of course.” Marshall flashed her a smile and announced her via the intercom. Moments later, the door to her father’s living quarters unlocked with a buzz and a click.

“Thanks.” She unwound the layers she’d donned to protect herself from the Chicago winter. She stowed them all neatly in an entryway closet. Her father’s penthouse wasn’t the kind of place where you tossed your coat and scarf over the back of the sofa.

When their mother was still alive, they had all lived in Winnetka, in a lovely Tudor-style house decorated with loving attention to detail. For her mother, with her flair for style, making a comfortable home for her family was a passion. Her father had commuted to work then. His job had been a driving force in his life, but it hadn’t
been
his life.