Balancing Act

chapter Twelve


Dory had put in her first week of work on the job and she knew she had made the right decision. Life was exciting again; she accepted her share of stress and plunged herself into learning Lizzie’s managerial duties. Soon, she hoped, she would be able to blend those managerial skills with her own brand of creativeness, and her job would be innovative as well as challenging.

So what if this particular brand of happiness was paid for by crying herself to sleep every night? So what if her appetite was less than it should be and every pair of broad shoulders and head of dark hair she noticed in a crowd seemed to be Griff? She was coping. She was handling it better than she had expected. That was all that mattered, she told herself. As Pixie often said, “Everything in life has a price. The trick is deciding if you want to pay it.”

The door to her office opened and in stepped David Harlow. “Katy said you’d need this coffee about now.” He sat a cup that boasted “BEST BOSS IN TOWN” down on her desk. “You look tired, so I guess she was right. I stopped by to invite you out for dinner.” There was a gleam in his eye as he appraised her sleek shining hair that brushed the shoulders of her mauve silk blouse. With a proprietary air, he reached out to smooth the pale blond strands.

Dory backed away. “Sorry, Mr. Harlow, I can’t make it.” She leaned back in her chair, sipping the fragrant brew.

“When we’re alone you’re to call me David,” he told her, his tone oily. “How about tomorrow?”

“Busy, Mr. Harlow. In case you’re not getting the message, I will call you Mr. Harlow.” Dory placed the cup on her desk and stood up to face him.

She stood tall, smoothing her skirt over her hips. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Harlow. I am well aware of the fact that you have it in your power to remove me from the ranks of Soiree. Before I made my decision to return here, I knew that there would never be anything between the two of us, and I’m prepared to start over again somewhere else. I will not be compromised.”

Harlow spoke as though he hadn’t heard a word Dory had said. “What about dinner Saturday or Sunday? We can take in jai alai in Connecticut.”

Dory shook her head.

“When won’t you be busy?”

Dory flinched at his tone. This was it. “You’re not listening to me, Mr. Harlow. It’s time we understood one another. If you and what you’re suggesting goes with this job, then you have the wrong woman. Oh, I could make all kinds of threats about going to the Civil Liberties Union or yelling sexual harassment, but I’m going to get on with my life, and I’m not going to let you get under my skin. I’ll simply clean out my desk and be out of here within the hour. That, Mr. Harlow, is the bottom line. Take it or leave it.” There, she had said it and she knew he’d been listening. And it hadn’t been as difficult as she’d thought. She kept her gaze steady and waited.

Harlow grinned wolfishly and held out his hand. He was whipped and he knew it, and wasn’t it said that discretion was the better part of valor? There were other girls, less dedicated women who could appreciate a man like himself. Oh, he knew he wasn’t much to look at, but he also knew something else. Women were attracted to power. An Adonis of a janitor couldn’t compete with the homeliest of men who held the three “P’s”: power, position and persistence. “Well, they told me you weren’t a pushover, Dory.” He grinned broadly. “This is only a truce; it doesn’t mean I won’t keep trying.”

“Just so the record is straight,” Dory told him firmly. “And also for the record, if you’re Mr. Harlow, then I’m Ms. Faraday. Got it?” She extended her hand for a shake.

“You have style, Faraday, I’ll give you that.”

“That’s what they tell me. Time to get back to work, Harlow. Thanks for stopping by.”

Harlow grinned. “Next time I’ll make an appointment.”

“Do that.” Dory grinned back.

Harlow left her office, but he winked at her before he left. She wanted to throw something at him. He’d said the words and played the scene, but he hadn’t believed a word of it. As far as he was concerned, Dory was simply going to take a little longer than other women. But even with her anger, Dory knew a satisfaction. She’d played by her own rules, and while she hadn’t exactly had a complete victory, the ball was in her court. David Harlow would probably always be a thorn in her side but she’d cope. It was going to be rocky, but she’d been over rough turf before.





There was one more thing to do before she could sit back and relax with Pixie’s letter, which had arrived in the morning mail. And then back to Katy’s comfortable ranch house on the Island.

She flipped through the Rolodex till she found the number she wanted, then dialed and waited.

“Senator Collins’s office. May I help you?”

“Dory Faraday, Miss Oliver. Is the senator in?”

“One moment please.”

“Ah, Miss Faraday, it’s a pleasure to hear your voice at the end of a long day, a very long day.”

“Thank you.” There was that smile in his voice again. “Senator, I really do want to apologize for not getting together over the holidays. I moved back to the city and managed to get myself promoted in the bargain. I think I more or less have things squared away here. How’s your schedule?”

“Hectic. But, I have a farm in McLean where I go weekends. By pure chance I happen to have the next four free. I have to warn you, though, that could change at any time. For now, it’s good for me if you could manage to get down here.”

Dory’s heart picked up an extra beat as she contemplated a long weekend with the man who owned such a wonderful voice. “I think I can arrange it. Would you like to start this weekend?”

“It’s all right with me. Just tell me your flight number and I’ll have someone pick you up at the airport.”

“I’ll get back to your secretary tomorrow, Senator. I’m looking forward to working with you on this project. I think it’s going to be one of our better political profiles.” As she spoke, Dory riffled through the files in the bottom right-hand drawer of her desk. Where was the envelope Katy had sent her with that material on Drake Collins? She had been so involved with making her decisions that she’d never opened it.

Her fingers found the mailing envelope and she pulled the tab to open it. Senator Collins was talking about bringing a pair of warm boots and heavy sweaters to the farm. She’d have to follow him around while he tended to chores and he planned to do some riding. Did she ride?

The contents of the envelope scattered out onto Dory’s desk. There were newspaper clippings, Xeroxed copies of magazine articles in Fortune, Business Week, and Time. And an 8 x 10 black-and-white glossy photo, no doubt from the senator’s campaign. Dory picked up the photo. Laughing eyes looked back into hers from a handsome face. Dory’s eyes widened. The man at the airport. The senator was the man at the airport who had picked up her dropped glove and had wanted to take her for coffee! Little bubbles of excitement fizzed through her blood. There had been an instant attraction between them. She knew it; any woman could instantly tell if a man was interested in her.

“I’m counting on this article for Soiree to assure me of being a shoo-in on my next campaign for office,” the senator quipped.

“We do have an astronomical circulation in your home state, Senator. If nothing else, you’ll have the edge over your opponent.”

“I’m looking forward to your visit. Till Saturday,” Drake Collins signed off.

Dory sat for a long time staring at the phone. It was incredible, simply incredible. It would be fun to see if the senator recognized her from the airport. Fun. That was what she wanted right now. She still wasn’t over Griff, and she didn’t expect to be for a long, long time. She wondered what he was doing right now, this minute. She glanced at her watch. He’d still be at the clinic. Would he eat supper alone? With someone? Was he eating right?

Dory’s shoulders slumped. She shouldn’t be worrying about him this way. But love, when it died, died hard. And Dory still loved Griff, in a very special way. More special because Griff recognized her needs and was unselfish enough to think of Dory first. If anyone had had doubts or qualms about Dory moving to Washington, it had been Griff. He’d wanted to marry her. Perhaps marriage would have made the difference. There would have been a commitment. She would have had to think things through very carefully. Dory realized now that she had never burned her bridges behind her when she left New York. She had purposely contrived to keep a spot open for herself in case she wanted to return. But then, why had she left in the first place? Was it plain weariness of job and stress? Was it because she realized Lizzie would be leaving and she’d been the most natural person to step into the job? Did she think at the time that she couldn’t handle the position? Was that why running away with Griff had seemed so important? And that was what it had been, running away, knowing that Soiree would welcome back its prodigal child.

She loved Griff, yet she had used him. In return for all those household chores and making a home, she had expected safety and solace. And still it hadn’t been there for her. No sooner had she arrived than she had begun to worry that Griff didn’t love her, didn’t admire her, that he’d admired other women more. She had expected to keep a home for Griff, but she had also expected him to make a home for her. Foolish girl. Why and where had she gotten the idea that all things good and worth having come to a woman only through a man? Griff hadn’t changed, she had! Griff hadn’t expected her to sacrifice, she had simply done it. He hadn’t asked . . . she had simply given. And always he had appreciated it, but probably the whole time he’d wondered where his Dory had gone. The Dory he had known in New York and had fallen in love with.

“Griff . . . Griff . . . I let both of us down, didn’t I?” She looked at the phone. She’d finally gotten it all straight in her own head and she wanted to tell Griff. Her hand fell back into her lap and she laughed aloud. Griff knew. Griff had always known.

Dory blinked back a tear, a smile forming on her lips. For now, she had found the place she needed to be, to grow. It wasn’t the answer to everything in her life, but until she wanted to be somewhere else, it was home. And she was home free.

On to bigger and better things. Better things like a letter from Pixie. The airmail paper was as crisp and crackly as celery. Dory smoothed out the pages and leaned back, her feet propped up on an open drawer. It paid to be comfortable when starting one of Pixie’s letters.




Dory, Sweet Child,





I know you must be chewing your nails wondering how I’m doing. In a word, super. That’s as in s-u-p-e-r! Mr. Cho (he insists I call him Mr. Cho) and I are a perfect match. I’ve already filled the journal you gave me for Christmas. There was a tricky moment or two when Mr. Cho wanted to know why I had so many names. I glossed over the whole thing and he now thinks all Americans are crazy. Wealthy and crazy!

I’m marrying Mr. Cho on the second day of the Chinese New Year which is shortly after ours. He’s a remarkable man. As you know, he demanded a dowry. He also demanded all my assets and said he would retire to manage them. We’ve worked up a written contract whereby he agrees to devote his entire life to me and to make you and me all the shoes we can hope to wear in a lifetime. (I had to fight for that one.) We both know I have a tendency to be flaky, but I have never been one to buy a pig in the poke. We did a little plea bargaining which is another way of saying I demanded a sample of his devotion. My dear, may I say it was one of the most heady experiences of my life. I worried for naught. I think even Mr. Cho was startled. We had a bit of role reversal when I had to wait for him for two days before he could get it all together. I loved every minute of it. I felt so . . . so . . . lecherous.

Mr. Cho is thirty-nine years old. I was a little surprised but he said not to concern myself, that age was only a number. He constantly tells me I’m a work of art, meaning, I’m sure, that I’m a treasure.

Mr. Cho will retire officially the day of our marriage. The nuptial agreement has many little clauses and tacky little promises that I have no intention of honoring. I’m contributing seventy-five thousand dollars to the marriage. If Mr. Cho’s eyes weren’t almond-shaped, I think they would have widened in surprise. He considers that amount equal to being a millionaire. Aren’t you proud of me? I never give all of everything except my body. Mr. Cho loves my wigs. He’ s now trying to figure out a way to keep them from slipping off my head. He loves to run his fingers through them. (Is that kinky or is that kinky?) On my arrival we both got blitzed, me on his rice wine and he on my Scotch. It was memorable.

I plan to take up residence in his house in Aberdeen. I’ll have cards made up and send you one. Actually, the house is a shack. One of these days when I’m not too busy I may fix it up. Hong Kong is magnificent, and I do my shopping in Kowloon. Mr. Cho barters and haggles for me so no one loses face.

Under separate cover I’m sending you all the materials Mr. Cho requires for a mold of both your feet. Rush it back to me. I don’t want him to get too lazy. Devotion is the name of the game, and if I’m paying for it, I want “our” money’s worth.

I’d write more but Mr. Cho is suffering his third relapse and I want to make him some rum tea. These Orientals have no stamina. I can’t even begin to tell you the trouble I had when I tried to explain the word ‘performance’ to him. Now he understands. That’s why he’s working on his third relapse. Just last night I had to tell him my bankers weren’t going to be too happy if he kept caving in on a regular basis. Poor darling, every time I say, “up, up and away,” he turns green.

Dory, dear child, I hope all is well with you and that you have made decisions of your own. I’m sending this letter to the magazine. I didn’t want your mother getting hold of it. I can just see and hear her clucking her tongue and saying “that damn fool, he married her for her money.” I know it’s true and you know it’s true, but your mother doesn’t need to know. I can live with my decisions because for the first time in thirty years I’m happy doing what I want when I want. Amazing that I had to come halfway around the world to do it. Well almost, I do have to consider Mr. Cho and his . . . ah . . . slight deficiency. See if you can’t get me one of those sex manuals that deals with staying power. Rush it airmail in a plain brown wrapper.

One last thing, Dory. After my seventy-five thousand dollar withdrawal, I signed my power of attorney over to you. I don’t want those articulate bankers on my tail. Do whatever you have to do where my affairs are concerned. Take care, Dory, and please, be happy for me.

All my love and good wishes,

Aunt Pixie




Tears burned Dory’s eyes as she folded the crackly letter. “Right on, Pix,” she said softly. “Right on.” There were many kinds of happiness, she told herself as she slid the letter into the desk drawer. Coming back was her kind.

How many times had she thought about Griff today, yesterday, the day before that? Hundreds? Thousands? At least. Why not call him? They’d had so much. She couldn’t just cut it off. Why not call him and ask how he was doing? Why hadn’t he called to ask her how she was doing? Because he was a man and a man didn’t do things like that. Besides, she was the one who walked out. Before she could change her mind she dialed the number at the town house. Griff answered on the third ring.

His voice was just as she remembered and it did the same things to her it had always done. Her heart fluttered a little and her tongue felt as if it were stuck to the roof of her mouth. “Hi,” she said brightly.

“Hi yourself. I was just thinking of you.”

“Oh, how’s that?”

“Because I just got done eating a casserole you had frozen. It was delicious. You left enough food to last me a month.”

“I’m glad you’re eating properly.”

“So am I. How’s things in New York?”

“Pretty good. I’m busy as hell but I love it. I got a letter from Pixie today. There’s no way I can tell you what all she had to say. I could make a copy and send it on if you’d like to read it.”

“I’d like that. Please, send me a copy. Jesus, are you listening to the both of us. We sound so polite, so bland, so . . . so . . .”

“Like two nerds,” Dory laughed.

“Yeah. I was going to call you but then I told myself you needed the time to get back into the swing of things. I want you to believe that.”

“Why wouldn’t I? You never lied to me, Griff. I think of you constantly. On the hour at least.”

“I know, I do the same thing,” Griff said gruffly.

“Look, what are you doing two weeks from Friday? I thought I’d come up and we could do the town or whatever you want. I could bring your things back then too. Lily said she would pack everything up this week.”

“I’d like that, Griff, I really would.”

“Okay, it’s a date then unless Starfire foals that day. Can we leave it on that basis?”

“Sure. How’s things at the clinic?”

“Great. We have more business than we can handle. Thinking of taking on a fourth partner. John fired Ginny today for no reason. Just out and out sacked her. Since he’s the senior partner there wasn’t much either Rick or I could do. For some reason it bothered Rick. By the way, Rick tells me Lily thinks she’s pregnant again. He seems delighted and Lily of course is bubbling over with happiness.”

Dory swallowed hard. “That . . . that’s wonderful. What are you going to do about the town house?”

“I don’t need this much room. It’s pretty expensive. Lily said she’d get me an efficiency apartment so I kind of left it up to her. I can’t stay here,” Griff groaned. “There are too many memories. It’s the wise thing to do.”

“Yes.” She hated to ask it but she had to know. “Are you . . . are you seeing anyone?”

“The only lady in my life right now is Starfire. How about you?”

“No. I’ve been pretty busy.”

“I’ve missed you. You wouldn’t believe the condition of the bathroom. You’d kill me if you saw it.”

Dory laughed. “I wish I was there to see it.”

“I know you do. This . . . this conversation isn’t helping either of us, I guess you know that,” Griff said hoarsely.

“You’re right. I’ll look forward to seeing you in two weeks. And Griff, if Starfire foals, there will be other weekends.”

“See you, Dory.”

“I’m counting on it,” Dory said as she hung up the phone. A smile tugged at her mouth as she circled the date with a red pencil. Next to it she wrote in large letters: GRIFF.





If you enjoyed BALANCING ACT, be sure not to miss Fern Michaels’s new novel


THE BLOSSOM SISTERS.


In a richly rewarding story filled with unforgettable

characters, #1 New York Times best-selling author

Fern Michaels explores the enduring bonds of family

as one man loses everything—only to find the free-

dom to create a bold new life . . .





Gus Hollister owes all his success to his feisty grandmother, Rose, and he knows it. It was Rose and her sisters, Iris and Violet, who raised Gus, sent him to the best schools, and helped him start his own accounting business. Rose even bought the house Gus lives in with his wife, Elaine.





But now, Gus stands to lose everything—his home, his car, and his business. Worse, he’s alienated his beloved grandma, who tried to warn him about Elaine’s greedy, gold-digging ways. Gus, blinded by infatuation, refused to listen, and now Elaine has locked him out of the house he was foolish enough to put in her name.





Heartsick and remorseful, Gus returns to Rose’s Virginia farmhouse seeking shelter. But it won’t be easy to make amends. Despite their pretty floral names, there’s nothing delicate about the Blossom sisters. Unbeknownst to Gus, they’ve also been running a very lucrative business from home and don’t want interference. Yet family and forgiveness go hand in hand, and Gus isn’t giving up.





With the help of close friends, new associates, and some very sprightly ladies, Gus begins to repair the damage he’s done and help the residents of Blossom Farm begin the next phase of their business. He might even be finding the courage to love again. Because no matter how daunting starting over can be, the results can surpass your wildest expectations—especially when the Blossom sisters are in your corner . . .





A Kensington trade paperback on sale

in May 2013!





Read on for a special excerpt.



Gus Hollister couldn’t remember when he’d been so tired as he closed and locked the doors of his CPA firm. Well, yes, actually he could remember. It was last year at exactly the same time, April 16, the last day of this year’s tax season. Not that it was totally over; he still had tons of stuff to do, extensions to file, but he’d made his deadline, all clients had their records, and he was going home. If only it were to a home-cooked meal and several glasses of good wine. Like that was really going to happen. But he was simply too tired to care whether he ate or not.

Instead of taking the elevator, Gus trudged down the three flights of stairs and out to the small parking lot. Exercise these days was wherever he could find it. He winced at the lemon yellow Volkswagen Beetle that was his transportation for the day. His wife had taken his Porsche, and he was stuck with this tin can. If only he were a contortionist, which he wasn’t. Gus clicked the remote and opened the door. After tossing his heavy briefcase on the passenger-side seat, he struggled to get his six-foot-four-inch frame into the small car. He hated this car. Really hated it. He inserted the key in the ignition, then lowered the windows and stared out at the dark night, an anxiousness settling between his shoulders that had nothing to do with taxes and the long days and nights he’d been putting in.

For some reason he didn’t think it would be so dark, but then he remembered that they had turned the clocks ahead a few weeks back. Regardless, it wasn’t supposed to be dark at nine thirty at night, was it? But he couldn’t bring himself to care about that either.

He was almost too tired to turn the key in the ignition, so he just sat for a moment, looking out across the small parking lot to the building his grandmother had helped him buy. A really good investment, she’d said, and she was right. He rented out the two top floors to other businessmen, and the rent money he received covered the mortgage and gave him a few hundred dollars toward his cash flow every month. He owed everything he had in life to his feisty grandmother, Rose. Everything. And they were estranged at this point in time because of his wife, Elaine. He wanted to cry at the turn his life had taken in the last year. He banged the steering wheel just to vent before he started the Beetle, put it in gear, and roared out of the parking lot at forty miles an hour.

Thirty-five minutes later, Gus untangled all six-foot-four of himself from the lemon yellow Beetle, a feat requiring extraordinary concentration and agility. Then he danced around, trying to work the kinks out of his body. The Beetle belonged to his wife. She looked good in it. He looked stupid and out of place sitting behind the wheel. Today, Elaine had been out job hunting, and she wanted to make an impression, so she’d asked him if she could borrow his Porsche. Every bone and nerve in his body had screamed out, no, no, no, but in the end, he had handed her the keys. It was just too hard to say no to Elaine because he loved her so much. Especially when she kissed him so hard he was sure she’d sucked the tonsils right out of his throat. When that happened, he could deny her nothing, not even his beloved Porsche.

Elaine had passed the bar exam six months earlier and was looking for gainful employment. Or so she said. For six months now, she’d been looking for a job. Citing the economy, she told him that all the law firms wanted were slaves, not a qualified lawyer who had graduated at the top of her class. That was the reason she hadn’t been hired. Or so she said. She hadn’t even been called back for a second interview by any of the firms. Or so she said.

Sometimes he doubted her and instantly hated himself for his uncharitable thoughts, uncharitable thoughts that had been coming more and more frequently as of late. His gut was telling him that something was wrong; he just couldn’t put his finger on what that something was.

Gus reached across the seat for his briefcase, then closed and locked the Beetle. God, I’m tired. No one in the whole world could or would be happier than he when today, April 16, turned into April 17. He was a CPA, a damn good one if he did say so himself, and he had been working round the clock since January 1 to meet his clients’ needs. He’d made a lot of them happy and a few of them sad when he pointed to the bottom line that said REFUND or PAY THIS AMOUNT!

Gus walked across the driveway, wondering where Elaine was. It was 9:55, and she wasn’t home. The jittery feeling between his shoulder blades kicked in again when he saw no sign of his car. He frowned as he walked toward the back entrance of his house, the house his grandmother had bought for him. It was a beautiful four-thousand-square-foot Tudor. He shivered when he thought about what she would say when she found out he’d added Elaine’s name to the deed in one of those tonsil-kissing moments. For months, he’d been trying to find the courage . . . no, the guts, to tell his grandmother what he’d done. He knew she’d go ballistic, as would his two aunts. None of them liked Elaine. No, that wasn’t right either. They hated Elaine, they could not stand her. And Elaine hated them right back.

Elaine said his grandmother and the aunts were jealous of her because she was young and beautiful and had stolen his love away from them. He’d never quite been able to wrap his mind around that, but back then, if Elaine said it, he tended to believe it. With very few reservations. His grandmother and the aunts had been a little more blunt and succinct, saying straight out that Elaine was a gold digger. End of discussion.

The strain between him and his beloved, zany grandmother and dippy aunts bothered him. He had hated having to meet them on the sly, then keeping the meeting secret so he wouldn’t have to fight with Elaine and suffer through weeks of tortured silence with no tonsil kissing and absolutely no sex. Elaine held a grudge like no one he knew.

He owed everything to his grandmother. She’d raised him, sent him to college, helped him by financing his own CPA firm, then helping him again by buying him the beautiful house that he now lived in. With Elaine. And, no pre-nup. His grandmother had never once asked him even to consider paying her back, even when he’d tried.

He loved her, he really did, and he hated the situation he was in. Tomorrow or the day after, regardless of how it turned out, he was going to have a come-to-Jesus meeting with his wife and lay down some new rules. Family was family, and it was time that Elaine realized that.

Gus opened the gate to the yard, and Wilson came running to him. Wilson was the one thing he’d put his foot down on with Elaine. She said dogs made her itch and sneeze. Well, too bad; Wilson was his dog, and that was it.

“What are you doing out here, boy?” Gus tussled with the German shepherd a moment before walking up the steps to the deck, which was off the kitchen. The low-wattage back light was on. He didn’t need Wilson’s shrill barking to alert him to the pile of suitcases and duffel bags sitting outside the kitchen door. His suitcases. Six of them. And two duffel bags. All lined up like soldiers. Next to the suitcases was a pink laundry basket with Wilson’s blanket and toys. He knew even before he put the key in the lock that the door wouldn’t open.

“Son of a bitch!” He looked at the hundred-pound dog, who was barking his head off and dancing around the pink laundry basket. The jittery feeling between his shoulder blades had grown into a full-blown, mind-bending pain.

The words gold digger flitted through Gus’s mind as he tried to peer in through the kitchen window. The only thing he could see was a faint greenish light coming from the digital clock on the microwave oven. So much for that glass of wine; never mind a home-cooked meal.

“You should a called me, Wilson,” Gus snarled at the dog. As though what he said was even possible. The big dog barked angrily, as much as to say, What do you think I’m doing out here.

“Let’s check the front door.” Wilson nudged Gus’s leg, then slammed himself against the door. The envelope stuck between the door and the jamb fell to the floor of the deck. The dog backed up and sat on his haunches. “Aha!” Gus said dramatically as he ripped at the envelope. He held up a single sheet of computer paper toward the light.




Gus.

I’m sorry, but this just isn’t working for me. I don’t want to be married anymore. I’m going to file for divorce. I packed all your things, and they’re on the deck, along with your dog. As you can see, I had the locks changed. I don’t want to see you anymore, so don’t come here, or I will file a restraining order against you. I’m keeping the Porsche to show you I mean business.




The signature was a scrawled large E.

“Son of a bitch !” Wilson howled at the tone of his master’s voice. “And she’s keeping my car! My pride and joy! Next to you, that is, Wilson,” he added hastily. “How the hell am I supposed to take all my stuff in that tin can she calls a car? I damn well do not believe this!”

Wilson’s shrill barking told Gus that he had damn well better believe it.

Gus sat down on the top step and put his arm around the big dog. His wife didn’t want to be married to him anymore. But she wanted his house and his car. Gold digger! So, his grandmother and the aunts had been right all along. His thoughts were all over the map then as he tried to figure out exactly how and when it had all gone wrong. There must have been signs. Signs that he’d ignored. How far back? The start of tax season? Before? October, maybe? Elaine had been looking for a job for over six months, so that would take it back to October. What happened at that time? He racked his brain. Elaine wanted to go on a cruise, but he’d been too busy to go. She’d pouted for two whole weeks and only gave in when he bought her a diamond bracelet. November was a disaster, and they’d eaten out at Thanksgiving because all Elaine knew how to cook was eggs and pasta. He’d wanted to go to his grandmother’s, but she had refused, so he hadn’t gone either. A real man would have gone.

Then came Christmas. Elaine said Christmas trees made her sneeze and itch the way Wilson did. So, no Christmas tree. He’d had a hard time with that as he remembered how his grandmother and the aunts went all out for the holidays. Elaine had gladly accepted presents, however. Lots and lots of presents was what she’d said. And jerk that he was, he had complied.

He had mentally kicked himself and lost weeks of sleep because he’d kowtowed to his wife and not gone to see either his grandmother or the aunts for Christmas. Now, right this moment, he felt lower than a snake’s belly. If possible, he’d felt worse on Christmas Day. Here he was, three and a half months later, and he still hadn’t so much as spoken to his grandmother or his aunts. He really did have a lock on stupidity. His shoulders heaved. Wilson was on top of him in a heartbeat. Man’s best friend. Damn straight. Right now, his only best friend.

“I’m thinking I need a lawyer, Wilson,” Gus said, getting up from the steps. He swiped at his eyes. “Real men don’t cry. Bullshit!” he said, swiping at his eyes a second time. Wilson howled his misery as he waited to see what Gus would do.

“Okay, my tail is between my legs, so the only game plan I can see at this point is to pack you up in that tin can, take you to my grandmother’s, and beg her to let us stay there until I can get my head on straight. If I’m lucky, maybe she’ll lend me that farm van of hers, so I can come back to get our stuff. Let’s go, boy!”

Wilson ran down the steps and over to the yellow Beetle. He scratched at the door, leaving long gashes in the glossy paint. “Chew the damn tires while you’re at it, Wilson!” Gus said as he opened the door. Wilson leaped in and tried to settle himself on the passenger seat, but his legs hung off the seat and actually touched the floor. He barked and howled in outrage.

“It’s just for five miles, so relax. We’ll be there before you know it.”

Wilson threw his head back and let loose with an unholy bark that made the fine hairs on the end of Gus’s neck stand on end.

Gus clenched his teeth. “Yeah, you’re right, Wilson. We’re going to be damn lucky if my grandmother doesn’t kick our asses to the curb, and I wouldn’t blame her one bit. I’ve been a real shit. She really pulled the wool over my eyes, Wilson. Meaning Elaine, of course, not my grandmother. I’m even worse than a shit!” Wilson whimpered.

Ten minutes later, they were at the turnoff to the Blossom Farm, which his grandmother had renamed after his grandfather, Brad Hollister, had died, and her sisters, Iris and Violet, had come to live with her. For the sake of simplicity, his grandmother had also taken back her maiden name, Blossom.

“Okay, get ready, Wilson, we’re coming to the driveway. Look, this is serious, so pay attention. If it looks like Granny is going to kick my ass off her property, you have to step in and whine. However she feels about me, she loves you. You know what to do, so just do it!”

Wilson whined to show he understood his master’s words as he tried to untangle himself. The moment the car stopped, he was pawing the door to get out.

Inside the old farmhouse, the three residents were gaping out the window. “Rose! It’s either that gold digger or Gus! What are they doing here at this time of night? Oh, my God, lock the doors! Is the door locked? Of course it’s locked, we always keep the door locked,” Violet, Rose’s sister squealed.

“We need to hide,” Iris, the third sister, said. “Rose, you can’t let him in even if he is your grandson! We can’t let him find out what we’re doing.”

Rose Blossom peered out into the darkness. It was indeed her grandson and his dog coming up to the front porch. In full panic mode, she crouched next to her two sisters under the front bay window. “He knows we’re in here. Something must be wrong,” she hissed.

“Who cares?” Violet hissed in return. “If you let him in, we go up in smoke. Is that what you want?”

“Good God, no! We could go out on the porch. I’ll just tell him . . . something will come to me,” Rose dithered.

“No, something will not come to you, Rose. I say we just hunker down and wait him out. Unless, in one of your stupid moments, you gave Gus a key. Did you, Rose?” Violet snarled.

“He’s always had a key, you know that. I don’t see him using it. We are, after all, estranged,” Rose reminded her sisters. “Anyway, the key won’t work because we have a dead bolt inside. All he can do is bang on the door. Let’s just stay put and see what he does.”

“Why is he driving her car?” Iris hissed.

“Maybe she’s dead,” Violet whispered.

“You wish. Highly unlikely, or we would have seen the obituary,” Rose said.

Violet clapped her hands over her ears when she heard the first bang on the front door. Her sisters did the same. Outside, Wilson howled and barked, the sound loud and shrill enough to set the sisters’ teeth on edge.

“My legs are cramping,” Iris grumbled.

“Mine, too,” Violet added.

“I know you’re in there, Granny, so open the door. Wilson needs a drink. I’m sorry! I really am. Please, open the door!”

Winifred, the sisters’ basset hound, took that moment to waddle up to the door. She barked, a charming ladylike sound that pretty much said, Welcome.

“Damn dog! Now for sure he knows we’re in here,” Violet hissed. “I really have to get up now, or I’m going to faint.”

“If you’re going to faint, do it quietly,” Rose shot back.

More banging and more apologies ensued. The sisters turned a deaf ear.

Winifred turned and started to waddle toward the kitchen. “Oh my God, he’s going to the back door. All he has to do is smash the glass, and he can open the door,” Iris said, momentarily forgetting all about the cramps in her leg.

“Gus wouldn’t do that,” Rose said. But her tone of voice indicated that she wasn’t sure if what she had said was true or not.

“He’s not going to give up,” Violet said. “That has to mean the reason he’s here at this hour is important, at least to him. Maybe you should just open the door and talk to him through the screen door. Tell him you were just getting ready for bed or something. You and he are estranged, Rose. I don’t think Gus is here just to make nice. Just open the door and tell him to make an appointment to see you. That way we can . . . you know, just let him see what we want him to see.”

“That sounds like a plan. For God’s sakes, do it, Rose,” Iris said.

“Do I have a choice?”

“No, not really,” her sisters said in unison.

Rose heaved a mighty sigh as she made her way through the dark house to the kitchen. She didn’t even bother to turn on the light when she opened the door. She tried to make her voice as cold and unfriendly as she could when she said, “Please stop banging on my door, Augustus Hollister. Why are you here? What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you, Granny. It’s important.”

“Well then, young man, I suggest you make an appointment,” Violet, the bossiest of the sisters, said coolly. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve retired for the evening.”

“It’s not that late. You guys are night owls. Look, I need to talk to you, it’s important. If it weren’t, I wouldn’t be here, especially in that yellow sardine can that masquerades as a car.” The desperation in Gus’s voice were getting to the sisters, but they held their ground.

“Tomorrow afternoon around five fifteen will work for us. I hesitate to remind you, but you do have a wife. Shouldn’t you be discussing your important business with her?” Rose asked, defiantly.

“That’s why I’m here. She kicked me out, stole my car, and is threatening to get a restraining order against me. I need to borrow your van to bring my luggage here. Elaine packed it up and left it on the deck. She changed the locks on all the doors and said she’d call the police if I went back. Elaine does not want to be married to me any longer. So I need to stay with you until I can find a place of my own.”

“You have a place of your own! I know because I bought it for you and put your name on the deed. So now we’re good enough for you! What’s wrong with this picture, Augustus? You cannot stay here with us; stay at your office if you have to.” Rose reached behind her for the keys to the van, which were hanging on a hook. She opened the screen door a crack and dropped the keys on the stoop. “Be sure to bring it back in one piece.” Her tone was troubled but not unkind.

“Will you at least let Wilson stay here with you?” Gus pleaded, his voice cracking with emotion.

The sisters looked at one another. Iris and Violet shrugged, which meant, okay, open the door, and let Wilson in. Rose opened the door, and Wilson bounded into the kitchen. Rose closed and locked the door, then turned to face her sisters.

“Girls, that was so cruel what I just did. Gus is my grandson.”

“Need I remind you that he is the grandson who turned on you after all you did for him and chose that gold digger over you,” Iris said.

“He’s young, and he was in love. We all make mistakes at some point in our lives. Gus just made his mistake earlier than most people,” Rose insisted as she tried to defend her grandson.

Give it up, Rosie,” Violet said, wrapping her distraught sister in her arms. “Let’s get Wilson settled and have some cheesecake. We need to talk this over and come up with a plan where Gus is concerned.”

“We can’t let him in the house, that’s the bottom line,” Iris said. “Not tonight, not tomorrow, not anytime soon. If we do, it’s all over.”

“We know all that, so will you please stop reminding us?” Violet grumbled.





ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Fern Michaels is the USA Today and New York Times best-selling author of the Sisterhood and Godmothers series, Tuesday’s Child, Southern Comfort, Betrayal, Return to Sender, and dozens of other novels and novellas. There are over seventy million copies of her books in print. Fern Michaels has built and funded several large day-care centers in her hometown, and is a passionate animal lover who has outfitted police dogs across the country with special bulletproof vests. She shares her home in South Carolina with her four dogs and a resident ghost named Mary Margaret.