Marry Me (17 page)

He kept thinking about Faith, about Grace and Bryce and Peanut and how they weren't related by blood, but had built a strong family anyway. He kept thinking about his mother and siblings, about their nonexistent bond. He kept thinking about his deceased grandfather, his deceased father.

He no longer believed the stories his parents had spun about Harold's retirement, that he'd given his company to Lucas's father, then sailed quietly into the sunset.

Lucas had conducted his own research, and whenever he lifted a rock, cockroaches crawled out. His father had pushed Harold out, had stolen what he could, then had left the elderly man broke and alone.

What kind of son did that to his father?

Somehow Harold had accumulated a second fortune, a small one compared to the huge Merriweather legacy, but a fortune nonetheless. He'd entrusted it to Faith, had asked her to use it for Bryce's and Peanut's benefit. And she was carrying out his wishes.

Dustin wasn't the only one who could hire detectives. Lucas
knew, almost to the dollar, what Faith spent every month. She was no greedy gold digger, but exactly the sort of person she'd appeared to be:  trustworthy, loyal, and dependable.

He'd had months to reflect, and he was ashamed of how he'd doubted her, of how he'd shouted and accused.

He wanted to tell her he was sorry, but pride was a ridiculous thing. He was afraid she hadn't forgiven him, that he'd show up on her stoop and she'd slam the door in his face.

So he'd remained in limbo, fussing over what might have been, and kicking himself for wrecking the chance to be around his son.

"Were you in Rio?" Brittney tried again.

"Briefly."

"Where are you going next? I thought I might go with you. I thought maybe we could hang out."

Doing what?
he nearly snapped but didn't.

Behind her, he saw that his mother had escorted the final guests out the door. She was back in the grand front parlor, a wine glass in hand. She'd been drinking all evening and was struggling to hide the fact that she was tipsy. But he didn't blame her for her attempts at intoxication.

Their quarrel over Bryce had been ugly, and since then, they hadn't interacted. If another mother/son chat was pending, why do it sober?

He had his own drink—a whiskey over ice—and he downed the contents then set the glass on the mantle.

Why had he come to Denver? He detested the entire farce:  their playing at cordiality, the company, the mansion, the negligible ties that bound them to the city. He couldn't bear to have strangers fawning over them—as if any of it still mattered.

"I have an announcement," he said.

"Don't be dramatic," his mother sniffed. "It's late, and I'm not in the mood for theatrics."

He ignored her. "I'm beginning negotiations with the Historical Society to sell them the mansion."

"What?" Brittney gasped. "You can't do that. It belongs to all of us. I'd never agree to give it away."

"It doesn't belong to
all
of us," Lucas reminded them. "It
belongs to me, and I don't care to continue paying for the upkeep. It's silly—when none of us even lives here. None of us
wants
to live here. The place just sits empty, year after year. It's filled with antiques; it should be a museum."

"Mother," Brittney whined, "you won't let him, will you?"

"No, I won't. He'll sell it over my dead body."

"I'm not ten, Jackie," Lucas chided. "If I decide to turn this monstrosity into a museum, I will and you can't stop me."

"You will not speak to me in that tone of voice."

Dustin cut in, trying to avert a fight. "We don't need to be hasty. We should think about it."

"Why?"

"We all have a stake."

"
We
don't," Lucas said. "We didn't grow up here, and we've always hated it."

"This mansion," Jackie huffed, "was built by your ancestors."

"You don't get to lecture me about family, Jackie. You don't know the meaning of the word."

"I suppose you're still smarting over that…
child
in Boulder."

Lucas stared, realizing how little emotion he felt for her.

"Say his name, Jackie. You know what it is."

"I won't dignify him with an identity. He's nothing to us."

"Jackie," Dustin scolded, "that was unnecessary."

"Don't start in on me, Dustin," she sniped. "I won't have you defending your brother. Not on this topic. It's absurd."

"Speaking of the boy—" Dustin chimed in.

"What boy?" Brittney asked, but no one bothered to explain.

"His name is Bryce," Lucas tightly said.

"Fine," Dustin replied, "speaking of Bryce, where are we with Faith Benjamin?"

"I'm not pursuing her. I told you I wouldn't."

Dustin threw up his hands. "I gave you all the evidence you need to hang her."

"You certainly did."

"What about the tape?" Dustin complained.

"What about it?" Lucas responded. "Did you pay her to
make it? Or did you simply seduce her and pretend you'd date her if she betrayed Faith? How low were you willing to go?"

"I screwed her brains out," Dustin crudely retorted, "and afterward, she begged to help me."

"I'll just bet she did."

"Hey," Dustin mocked, "whatever works, right? I'm my father's son. I did what I had to do."

"If you want to exhibit his worst traits," Lucas warned, "I wouldn't brag about it to me."

"Your father," Jackie felt the need to inform Lucas, "was ten times the man you are, and I won't have you denigrating him."

"Stay out of this, Jackie."

"He would have dealt with Ms. Benjamin in a heartbeat. She wouldn't have lingered on the fringes of our lives, making fools of us each and every day."

"Like my wife, Katie, made fools of us?"

"Lucky for you, your father had the fortitude to handle your mess. Just imagine where you'd be now, a decade later, if you were trapped in that marriage."

"What are you talking about?" Brittney demanded. "What marriage? Who is the boy you're discussing? Am I some stranger on the street who can't be allowed to know your secrets?"

"If I thought you should be apprised," Jackie snidely said, "I'd tell you. Be silent."

Lucas sighed and poured himself another whiskey. As he sipped it, he studied his tiny family. It was a sorry statement on the condition of his life that they were the only people in the world to whom he was connected.

He was disgusted and eager to escape, and he wondered if he'd ever see any of them again. He didn't suppose he would.

"Goodbye." He started for the door.

"Where are you going?" Brittney inquired, actually sounding concerned.

He hadn't been sure, but his next location fell on him like a ton of bricks.

"Boulder."

"Why Boulder?"

"To see Faith. To see Bryce and Peanut."

"Who is Bryce? Who is Peanut?" Brittney was frowning, perplexed.

Lucas didn't answer her. Let Jackie do it. Let Dustin. Lucas had no desire to hash it out.

He glared at his mother. "Don't summon me for anymore of your gatherings. I won't come."

"You will if I say you will."

"No. Never again. There's no point. I'll notify you when I've resolved the issues with this house."

"Lucas!" Brittney pleaded. "Don't do it."

He ignored her again. "In the meantime, if you have to contact me, I'd appreciate it if you'd send any messages through my lawyer in New York. You all have his number."

He strolled out, and behind him, he heard Dustin mutter, "Bastard."

"What boy?" Brittney said. "What marriage? Someone tell me what's going on. Why is he so upset?"

Lucas went to his car, got in, and drove away. As the old mansion receded in his rearview mirror, he felt free for the first time ever.

* * *

Angela knocked on Faith's front door.

In better days, she'd have simply walked in. There would have been no need to knock, but she'd relinquished her spot as a member of the family. If Faith told her to go away, she didn't know what she'd do.

Since her stupid, futile encounter with Dustin Merriweather, she'd suffered one catastrophe after the next. She'd lost her apartment, her unemployment had run out. She'd been sleeping on an acquaintance's couch—a male acquaintance—and he'd begun to suggest that she should pay for the privilege. From his lewd glances, he'd been very clear as to what sort of compensation he expected.

Gracie and Faith had always been the safe harbor to which she returned. After heartache or disaster, they welcomed her with open arms.

No matter what Angela did, no matter how she acted, they forgave and accepted her for who and what she was. But she'd
squandered that affection. Would they give her a chance to win it back?

She knocked again, and Peanut answered.

"Hi Angela."

She stared up at Angela with those big Merriweather blue eyes. She was so pretty, like a little curly-headed doll. Previously, Angela had never cared much about her; she'd been too focused on herself. Now she could barely keep from falling to her knees and pulling her into a tight hug.

"Hey Peanut."

"I haven't seen you in a long time," Peanut said. "Where have you been?"

"Here and there. Is Faith home?"

"She's at the store."

"How about Gracie?"

"She's in the kitchen."

Peanut appeared blissfully unaware of the adult conflict that had roiled the house a few months earlier. It would never occur to her that Angela shouldn't come in, that Faith might not want her to.

She yanked the door wide, and Angela took a deep breath for courage and stepped over the threshold.

Peanut skittered off, leaving Angela alone in the living room. It was quiet, and it smelled of flowers and sunshine. There was a roast in the oven, the aroma hinting at supper where they'd all sit at the dining table together and eat like the family they were.

Tears flooded her eyes. She yearned to be at the table so fiercely that she would do anything to make it happen.

"Peanut," Gracie called from the kitchen, "who was at the door?"

Angela went over and peeked in. Gracie was hovered over a bottle of polish, painting her nails bright red.

Gracie had first taken in Angela when Angela was a kid. And she'd let Angela stay, despite how badly she had behaved. Gracie didn't hold a grudge, and she was never bitter.

She knew life was hard for a woman, but then, whenever Angela had stolen money or run away, she'd done it to Gracie. Never to Faith. Gracie loved Faith and she wouldn't tolerate
anyone hurting Faith as Angela had.

Of the two, Gracie would be the most difficult to persuade. If Angela had wounded Faith too deeply, Gracie would toss her out.

"It's me Gracie," Angela said.

Gracie's brush halted in mid-stroke, then slowly, she raised her gaze to Angela's.

"You finally slithered home," Gracie replied. "What do you want?"

"I came to say I'm sorry."

"You're always sorry. It doesn't change anything."

"I didn't mean to hurt anybody."

"You never do, but you hurt them just the same."

Angela felt ten years old again, young and abandoned, with sensible, wise Grace Green the only person in the world who would put up with her. Had she pushed Gracie too far?

Gracie studied her, pondering her fate, then she gestured to the chair across, indicating that Angela should sit. Angela stumbled over and plopped down.

She endured a tormented silence, with Gracie finishing her nails while Angela watched. Angela couldn't remember how many times she'd done just that and she gained such comfort from the ordinary, normal routine.

"I'm supposing you're here"—Gracie blew on her nails to speed their drying—"because you've hit bottom and you don't have anywhere to go."

"You're right. I don't have anywhere to go."

"You want to move in with us."

"If it's okay with you."

"It's not up to me. This was Harold's house, and now it's Faith's. You have to ask her."

"I know." Angela glanced down at her lap, terrified over her prospects with Faith. "What do you think she'll say?"

"I couldn't guess Angela. You've screwed up in the past but this was different. There are some things you can't step away from."

"I love Faith," she vehemently said.

"Then you'll have to convince her. Because from where I'm standing, it seems like you're glad to be on your own—until
you're out of options."

"I'm sober," Angela blurted out.

Gracie scoffed. "For how many hours? Or has it been minutes?"