Mr. Elliott Finds A Family. Susan FloydЧитать онлайн книгу.
she’d halfheartedly toured the homes he’d arranged for her to see, then convinced him that his parents’ estate was the best place for them to settle. Perhaps an early sign that their marriage was disintegrating.
Now, he caught a small glimpse of the reason behind Caroline’s driving need to reside at Bella Grande. She denied her ordinary beginnings and used him to reinvent herself to the point of obliterating her family, her sister, her grandmother. First it was the mansion, then it was the cruises. When two-week holidays had turned into three-month or five-month journeys, he’d known Caroline had stumbled upon a life-style.
When she’d return home, she’d always declare she wasn’t going to travel again, that she was sick of the crowd, of the food. But after about three weeks, he saw the brochures, found the tickets on her dresser, felt her restlessness. He’d responded by working harder, ridding himself of the fanciful notions of children gleefully screaming on the vast lawns of his parents’ estate, adjusting to the fact that when Caroline was in town, her cruising friends would slobber over him because of his family’s name.
It had been almost a relief when Caroline would call to say she was extending the cruise of the hour for another few weeks. In the seven years they were married, Caroline had traveled for probably five of them, if all the months were strung together. It had happened so subtly that even if Christian had wanted to, there was no way to protest. When he finally did, she’d spoken so bitterly he’d had to force himself to walk away.
Their arguments weren’t about money.
He had enough money for God knew how many trips. Even with all her excesses, Caroline had never made a dent in his personal fortune, much less the vaster family one. No, she’d sharply pointed to several of his flaws—his failure to engage in verbal combat, his grueling, self-imposed work schedule, his lack of affection, his inability to fill the bottomless pool of adoration Christian perceived she needed in order to maintain her self-esteem.
His jaw tightened and he pushed away the thoughts that caused his stomach to churn. He didn’t want these feelings. He hadn’t wanted to come here. But Mrs. Murphy, his battle-ax of a personal assistant, more surrogate mother than secretary, had insisted. Told him to get the signatures once and for all so he could put Caroline to rest. Meanwhile, she would change the locks on the entire building and shut down his private elevator to ensure that he would continue to travel north to Napa Valley to take his physician’s prescribed three-month vacation—far, far away from work.
Mrs. Murphy knew leaving the office wasn’t easy for him. She knew how much he resisted the endless days filled with nothing but the guilt that haunted him. For too long, work had been his one constant, the only element that could seal up the cracks left by Caroline’s death. Even though they hadn’t passionately loved each other at the end, Caroline had been his wife and her death had affected him much more than he would have ever anticipated.
Many times he wanted to believe that she was just away on an extended cruise. But the image of Caroline’s body, crushed in her beautiful, brassy-red convertible was permanently etched in his mind. He carried it with him every day, saw it during his sleepless nights. Thank God Mrs. Murphy had stepped in during the crisis and had steered the financial conglomerate through competitive waters. Max—who was paid more and was supposedly his right-hand man—had been practically useless during the turbulent days that followed Caroline’s death.
Weary, ready to be on the road, away from this small bungalow, away from the woman who looked at him so suspiciously, Christian forced himself to focus on his main objective. Once he had her signature, he would deal with the feelings, the long days ahead of him.
He repeated, “DirectTech, the company, is Bernadette’s and we need you to sign some paperwork. I’ve got copies in the car.”
Beth Ann sat at the table, her face averted as she began to tame Bernie’s wild curls with firm strokes. He watched her spritz Bernie’s hair with some sweet smelling detangler and then pull half of it into a pigtail. Eventually, she looked up and asked cautiously, “Why is it hers?”
“DirectTech was Caroline’s. She willed it to Bernadette. You wouldn’t know why, would you?” When he received no other answer than a brief shake of Beth Ann’s head, Christian continued, “My parents gave the company to her as a wedding present. They thought it would be nice if she had an income of her own.” He pointed at the toddler whose head bobbed as her mother fastened the other pigtail securely. “She’s going to be guaranteed an income for life.”
“And?” Beth Ann’s eyes were wary.
“And you were named as the trustee.” He gave her a hard stare, that she deflected by looking away. She was very good at not making eye contact.
“Oh, that’s easy. I won’t sign,” Beth Ann said, her voice almost relieved, as she stood. “If that’s all you need to know, I guess you can leave now.” She started to walk to the front door. Christian stayed solidly seated, ignoring her obvious signal that he should make his exit. She couldn’t physically oust him, could she?
“I’d like to have another cup of coffee,” he said politely, draining what was left, and holding out his mug. It was awful, but it would keep him here until he had what he wanted.
Beth Ann’s face turned red and she said tightly, “I’d rather you left. I have a friend coming soon.”
“Poop!” Bernie said urgently, tugging at the seat of her sweats, frozen where she stood.
“Poop? You’re kidding!” Beth Ann yelped with wide eyes and scuttled the toddler across the kitchen floor. “Let’s go, Bernie-Bern-Bern. Let’s go give the poop to Mrs. Potty.”
Christian got up and poured some more coffee. Beth Ann looked up and frowned silently as she watched his actions, her hands pulling Bernie’s sweats down around her knees and releasing the tape on her diaper. He met her brown gaze directly and she glanced away.
“Potty training stops for nothing,” she commented abstractly.
He couldn’t help but be mildly interested in what they were doing, the communion between mother and daughter clearly apparent as she helped Bernie onto the low potty.
Then they all waited.
The combination of Beth Ann’s wry smile and her nurturing care of the toddler stirred feelings he’d buried away in a very deep part of his soul. This small part of him secretly wished he and Caroline had shared such moments. Maybe then they wouldn’t have drifted so far apart. As an envious outsider, he watched Beth Ann gently rub Bernie’s back. If he squinted hard enough he could imagine the woman was Caroline not her sister. In his fantasy, he wouldn’t be a stranger in such a loving household, but an integral part of it.
The image placed before him—Beth Ann talking reassuringly to Bernie, her little face scrunched as she bore down—was an intimate snapshot reserved for family. Only family cared enough to celebrate the triumphs of proper waste disposal. He’d never seen his mother look at him so lovingly and although he couldn’t remember the event, he had no doubt she wasn’t even remotely involved with his toilet training. He wondered if she had even changed a diaper.
“I pooped!” Bernie announced loudly, as she stood and looked into Mrs. Potty, while Beth Ann cleaned her off with a wet wipe.
Beth Ann nodded with a beaming smile that took his breath away. It was the smile of an angel, sending deep dimples into her cheeks, crinkles around her eyes. Even the light dusting of freckles across her nose glowed. Christian couldn’t help but be jealous of the attention and admiration that Bernie was getting. He wondered why Beth Ann’s smile seemed to have the effect of a low-grade volt of electricity, stimulating some distant physical impulses that he’d assumed had died long before Caroline.
“Yes, you certainly did,” her voice deepened with affection. “You pooped in Mrs. Potty and now what do we have to do?”
Bernie looked at her, her face pensive with concentration.
“Remember,” Beth Ann said, her voice prompting. “We wash our hands. Wash our hands, wash our hands, wash our