Crossroads (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

A
penny for your thoughts,” Gwen said to her uncharacteristically silent mother as they drove back to Wrightstown. The visit to Jewel’s house had ended quickly after Jeff ’s entrance. He’d tried to start a little idle chitchat with Cassandra. “My father taught art history at Wrightstown College,” he’d told her. “One of his students, Edward Laurence, is the curator at the Wright Glass Museum. He was brought on board by your first husband.”

Of course Jeff had no way of knowing that any mention of Bradford Greeley was enough to send Cassandra out of a room. Instead of picking up on the opening he’d given her, she had murmured that she must look up the man sometime and hustled herself and Gwen out the door.

“You look angry,” Gwen now said as they drove. “Are you?”

“No. I’m just . . . thinking.”

“You’re not going to start that stuff about JeffSon again, are you? Because anyone can see from looking at that house that Jeff Henry is in fine shape.”

“I’m sure he’s making money hand over fist; his type usually does—for a while.”

“His ‘type’? What is that exactly?”

“It’s not important.” Her mother frowned; she really was disturbed. Finally she said, “There’s something else.”

“Now what?”

“I—” her mother stopped then started again. “If you want my opinion—and I don’t suppose you do, but I’m going to give it to you anyway—I didn’t like the way Jeff Henry looked at you when he walked in the room. You’re a married woman. He’s a married man.”

“I cannot begin to imagine what you’re talking about!” But Gwen could feel her face getting red.

“Oh, Gwen! Yes, you can. He looked like . . . well, it was worse than just a man undressing a woman with his eyes. That happens. This was more like a smitten boy seeing his prom date for the first time. You can’t tell me you weren’t aware of it; women are.”

“Well, I wasn’t!” Gwen said. “Because there was nothing to be aware of!” But of course there had been. Now Cassie was confirming it, which was making Gwen feel guilty. And since guilt is one of the least comfortable emotions we can experience, she got angry at Cassie. “And you are wrong about Stan and the JeffSon offer,” she said defiantly. “I liked the idea, but I wasn’t sure what to say to Stan. You helped me make up my mind. I’m going to tell him to take it!”

*                           *                           *

Stan hadn’t expected Gwen to be so strongly in favor of the JeffSon deal. Nor had he expected his own reaction to her enthusiasm. He was proud of the small business he’d built from nothing and it hurt to see how easily his wife could contemplate selling it. It had been a dream of his that one day he might hand it down to his son, or—why not?—his daughter. The dream was one he hadn’t shared with Gwen—the subject of children was still a raw and painful one between them—but he had hoped it might occur to her. After all, if anyone should understand about family businesses and legacies it should be Gwen. On the other hand, he knew that she was being sensible. Jeff Henry’s offer was an excellent one and most people in his position would have grabbed it.

Still, in his heart he wanted to turn it down.

Then the letter came. It was addressed to him at his shop. He recognized Cassandra’s correct handwriting at once.

Dear Stanley,
she’d written.
I find myself in a difficult position. I
am your mother-in-law and it is well known that for the sake of
family peace, in-laws should not meddle with young people’s lives.
So I have had a few misgivings about bringing up a subject that
really is none of my business. But I’ve decided to go ahead anyway
and risk your displeasure. And in the interests of total candor, allow
me to tell you that it is my intention to discuss my views on this issue
with Gwen as well as writing this letter to you. She and I may have
spoken by the time you receive this.

To put the matter plainly, I understand that you have received an
offer to sell your business to the JeffSon company and, in exchange
for various financial considerations, to join them. The more I think
about this, the more I feel that it is not a good idea. You are doing
well where you are, and I do not trust some of the things I hear about
JeffSon or the people connected with it. You are a man who works
hard and you are to be commended for that. Let the highfliers at
JeffSon do their wheeling and dealing; you stick to what you know.

Stan took the letter home and showed it to Gwen. “Did Cassie talk to you about this?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“It’s clear she doesn’t think I’m up to the challenge of a big company.”

Gwen took the letter out of his hand and tore it in half. “And I told her that you could hold your own with the people at JeffSon or anywhere else,” she said proudly.

And with Gwen looking at him with that mixture of love and defiance and perfect faith in his abilities, there was only one thing he could do. “I guess you’re looking at a new JeffSon employee,” he said. And when she hugged and kissed him and told him how happy she was, he told himself that he was doing the right thing.

But that night after dinner, he went outside to walk around the block. And as he rounded the corner, he looked up at The Amber where Jeff Henry had his offices. And a nagging little voice in the back of his brain was saying that Cassie Wright was a smart woman, whether he liked her or not. She knew a lot more about high finance than he did, and if she had doubts about JeffSon, wouldn’t he be a fool to ignore her?

But it isn’t JeffSon Cassie doubts, it’s you,
he reminded himself.
She thinks you’re not good enough and smart enough to protect
yourself in a company like that if something does go wrong.

So tomorrow he was going to call this Jon Kaiser and accept the offer and prove his mother-in-law was wrong! But still the nagging little voice persisted. Instead of going inside, he walked around the block again.

By the time he had circled the block twice more he had made up his mind: He would not accept any JeffSon stock for his building and his land. Jeff Henry would have to pay him in cash or there would be no deal. He would work for JeffSon, but he would keep his money safely tucked away. Satisfied with his decision, he walked into the lobby of his building and went up in the elevator to his waiting wife.

*                           *                           *

Jewel sat on the satin-covered chaise in the bedroom that Jeff had once said was the size of a football field and watched him unpack. One of the maids certainly could have done it, but since they’d moved into the house for some reason he’d insisted on doing little tasks like that for himself. She watched as he took the monogrammed leather case in which he kept his watches and cufflinks from the suitcase and returned the contents to the bigger case in his walk-in closet. His unused shirts, custom-made of the finest two-fold poplin, were rehung on the wooden hangers that had been specially made for the purpose. He looked down on Jewel for her extravagances but when it came to his own, nothing but the best would do for Jeff Henry! He was like all the rest of the hypocrites who thought they were too good for people like Jewel—hypocrites like Cassandra Wright and dear, dull Gwen.

“She’s not the princess you think she is,” Jewel told him as she watched him push the cedar shoe trees into his handmade Italian loafers.

“Who?” He was too busy with the shoes to look at her.

“Your dear friend Gwen Wright Girard. I know a nasty secret about her.”

That got his attention. He came over to stand in front of her. “What are you talking about?” he demanded. And so she leaned back on the satin chaise and for the second time in her life she told the story of Gwen Wright’s birth parents.

After she had finished she waited. Jeff didn’t say anything for a minute, then he asked, “You did say the mother was from New Orleans—right?”

“Yes. Some barmaid who . . .” But Jewel never got to finish the sentence because Jeff had rushed out of the room.

*                           *                           *

Stan held out for his own terms in the negotiations with JeffSon and he finally got what he wanted. When the deal was set, Gwen called her mother to tell her the news. Cassandra’s voice on the phone was icy. “Yes, I know Stan didn’t take my advice, Gwen, I’ve known that for several days.”

“We thought this was the best thing for us,” Gwen said.

“I’m sure you did,” said her mother and hung up.

*                           *                           *

A week later Jeff called Gwen at home—the first time he’d ever done that—and asked her to meet him at the Wright Glass Museum the next day. That was all he would say; she couldn’t get anything else out of him.

Chapter Twenty-nine

T
he Wright Glass Museum had won several architectural awards when it was built in the sixties, and most experts still considered it a gem. The building was a beige cube constructed of site-cast concrete with many skylights and mammoth windows, giving the interior an airy, otherworldly feel which was a perfect setting for the delicate displays of the glassblower’s artistry. The collection itself predated the building and had been started by the Wright family in the late twenties. All of the work exhibited had come from the Wright Glass works Studio, where skilled artisans from all over the world had been creating one-of-a-kind figurines, sculptures, vases, tureens, bowls, loving cups, lampshades, chandeliers, sconces, and other decorative works for over a century.

Gwen hadn’t been to the museum in years, although she had always loved it as a child. She was standing in the atrium under a skylight promising herself that she would not let so much time pass again before coming back, when a beaming Jeff came toward her.

“There’s something I want to show you, ” he said excitedly.“But first, I believe I told you about my father’s student who is the curator at this museum? His name is Edward Lawrence.”Jeff paused. “He worked here when your father was running the Glass works. ”

It took her a moment to digest what he’d said—that he knew about Bradford Greeley being her father.

“Who told you . . .”she started to ask, then stopped. “Jewel,”she said.

He nodded. “Yes, but that doesn’t matter now.” Gwen was about to protest that it did matter very much, but he went on, “I thought I remembered hearing Edward talking once about an entire series of figurines your father asked the Glass works Studio to create. He called it the New Orleans Group.”

Gwen had never actually believed that the hairs could stand up on the back of one’s neck. Now she knew it was possible. “Oh,” she whispered.

“Bradford died before he could tell anyone what he wanted done with the figures. And Cassandra didn’t . . .” He trailed off uncertainly.

“And Mother didn’t want to have anything to do with them,”Gwen finished the thought for him.

Jeff nodded. “They were packed away. But I contacted Edward a couple of days ago and asked if I could take a look at them. Would you like to see them?”

“Yes,” Gwen breathed.

“They’re in the back storage area.”

*                           *                           *

Gwen followed Jeff through a door marked Employees Only and he introduced her to Edward Lawrence, who led them up a flight of stairs to the second floor of the storage space where a table had been placed directly under a skylight so that a shaft of sunshine shone down on it.

“This is it, Mrs. Girard!” Edward cried. “I have set up the grouping for you as it might have looked if it had been displayed in the museum. Jeffrey has already viewed it.” He stepped back so Gwen could see.

Gwen gasped with sheer pleasure. In front of her, in exquisite miniature, was a forest scene full of sparkling woodland creatures. The trees were actual branches that had been cut to scale, but the animals were all painstakingly and lovingly made out of glass. Two raccoons foraged for food under the watchful eye of a frog, while squirrels with threads of glass whiskers ate acorns and two delicate little chipmunks stuffed their cheeks. A rabbit looked up to a tree branch on which sat an array of different songbirds, each feather etched in careful, minute detail. The sunshine from the skylight played on the little creatures, so that they twinkled and glistened and reflected back an ever-changing rainbow of colors: blues, pinks, and ambers.

“Oh,” Gwen said. “Oh, it’s so beautiful!”

“Yes,” Edward said reverently. “I’ve worked at the museum for over thirty years and I think this collection one of our greatest masterpieces. I always hoped . . .” But then he looked at Gwen, who was, after all, the daughter of Cassandra, and he stopped himself.

“I wish they could be displayed too,” she said. “Thank you for letting me see them.” She turned to Jeff. “And thank you,” she said. “You’re welcome,” he said softly.

Jeff didn’t say anything more until he and Gwen had left the storage room and were back in the museum with the soaring ceilings and shimmering glass displays.

“I wanted you to see that he wasn’t all bad,” Jeff said.

“Bradford, you mean.”

“When Jewel told me that you were his daughter and the story about your birth mother . . . I could imagine what you must have thought about him.”

“I didn’t let myself think much about him, to be honest with you. He was not a subject my mother wanted to discuss, for obvious reasons. But I wanted . . . I always wanted to think well of them both.”

“Of course,” he said. “Children always do.”

He stood there staring at her. At the other side of the museum a group of schoolchildren gathered around their teacher.

“Don’t touch that vase, Josh!” the woman’s alarmed voice echoed throughout the museum. “Lucy, move away from the display case!”

“I really don’t know how to thank you,” Gwen said.

He was very still as if he was debating with himself about something. Suddenly, Cassie’s words echoed in Gwen’s head.
I
don’t like the way he looks at you,
her mother had said. And Gwen knew that in that moment Jeff was on the brink of saying—or doing—something that would end their friendship forever, and she didn’t want that to happen. “I should be getting back home,” she said. “I still have to shop for dinner.” Then she added, “For Stan.”

He came out of his trance. “And I have a pile of paperwork back at the office.” They walked to the entrance of the museum together. He did not offer to drive her back to her apartment building. She took the bus.

*                           *                           *

“Fool!” Jeff berated himself as the Lamborghini idled noisily in the noon traffic. He’d driven himself to the museum instead of using his limo because he’d meant to ask Gwen to drive back with him. And if, while they were driving, he managed to take their . . . call it a flirtation, to another level . . . well, why not? He had seen her face when she looked at the collection of animal figures her father had commissioned. And he’d remembered her telling him about the spot on the hill behind the Wright house where she used to sit and watch the squirrels and chipmunks. And he knew she was grateful to him and the time was right. But then as he stood there in the museum, he couldn’t do it. Even though she was a grown woman who had known both pain and pleasure, he knew that in some ways she still didn’t know her own mind. And he didn’t want to take advantage of that. “You’re getting in way too deep,” he told himself. “This is the last thing you need.” Or perhaps it was exactly what he needed. But not yet. Not while things were so unsettled at JeffSon.

He frowned and shifted gears, and the car maneuvered its way through the traffic. His business was in trouble; he was finally admitting that to himself. And while it was just a temporary cash-flow thing, and his accountants were already making moves to take care of it, this was not the time to make waves with Jewel—or with Gwen’s husband. Stan Girard was a lot savvier and tougher than Jeff had expected him to be. Well, look at the way the man had refused to take JeffSon stock for his land and building and had insisted on cash only. He’d stuck to his guns, too; in fact, it had been downright insulting. If he hadn’t been Gwen’s husband Jeff would have dumped the deal just to teach him a lesson. But he
was
Gwen’s husband. And Gwen was still in love with him. She could be persuaded out of that, Jeff was sure. But not as quickly as he’d once thought. Stan Girard was more than a worthy opponent.
So take care of business first,
Jeff. And then . . . and then you’ll have your chance at Gwen. Once
you’ve cleaned up the mess, she will be your reward.

*                           *                           *

Gwen didn’t mention the museum visit or Jeff ’s surprise to Stan. In a couple of weeks her husband, who had always been his own boss, would be working for Jeff, and she didn’t want the two men to start off on the wrong foot. Of course, there was nothing wrong with what Jeff had done—but it might sound funny to Stan. Right now, he didn’t need that.

But at night when she lay in bed next to Stan, listening to the sound of his breathing, her mind went back to the little enchanted forest that had been the vision of Bradford Greeley, whose DNA she carried, and she wondered, “Which one of my parents loved the woods and the creatures in it the way I do? Was it my father? Did my father have those figures made for himself? Or was it my mother? Was she the one who sat as still as a stone and watched them and wondered what went on in their minds and if they thought the way she did? From the little I’ve heard about Bradford, it doesn’t sound as if he was the odd duck. So did he order those sparkling figures for her because he loved her so much? Was she that important to him? I’ll never know, but I want to think he did it for her. I want to think they loved each other that much.”

And at her side, Stan murmured without opening his eyes, “Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow, sweetheart.” Even when he was three quarters asleep himself, Stan could sense when she was awake. She moved closer to the warmth of him.

I want to think my mother had what I have. I want to think my
father loved her as much as Stan loves me.

The next morning when Gwen woke up, she went into the taupe-colored guest room and opened the laptop computer Stan had given her. She took out a yellow legal pad and a pile of pencils and set them near the computer so she could make notes on ideas as they came to her. She didn’t know how she knew this was going to be useful; she just did. In the kitchen she heard Stan padding around making himself coffee, getting ready to start his day, but she didn’t join him.

Finally, when everything was exactly the way she wanted it, she sat in front of the computer. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift back, back to her tree stump on the hill. Then she opened her eyes and began to type:
Abby the Squirrel was the odd
duck of the forest.

When the words appeared on the monitor screen, a voice behind her said gently, “You’re finally doing it.” And she turned to see Stan leaning over to read the screen. “And you’re calling her Abby,” he added. Then Stan, her husband of few words, who never showed emotion, leaned over to kiss her, and he was smiling with tears in his eyes.