Christine Rimmer - The Bravos - Family Ties

Ashlyn obediently climbed up and sat. “Okay.” She waited until Cleo was seated, too, then folded her hands in her lap. “We’re sitting.”

Cleo looked at the sweet upturned face of Fletcher’s child and felt distinctly devious. Trying to get his daughter to tell her the things Fletcher hadn’t said himself …

How low was that?

But then again, maybe this was a subject Ashlyn needed to explore. She asked gently, “Do you want to talk about your mother?”

Ashlyn wrinkled up her pert nose. “Well, no. I mostly want to go to my school right now.”

So much for Ashlyn’s burning need to confide. “You know what?” said Cleo. “You’re right. We should get to school.”

“O-kay.” Ashlyn jumped eagerly to her feet. “Let’s go.” She reached for Cleo’s hand again and they proceeded down the hallway toward the bank of French doors that led outside and to KinderWay. A few steps along, she looked up again. “Cleo?”

“Hmm?”

“Where’s your mommy?”

“She died, too, but it was after I was all grown up.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Yes, I do.”

“What about your daddy?”

“He’s still alive. I don’t see him very often, though.”

“Tell him to come to my house. I’ll read him a story. He’ll like that.”

Cleo pushed open the door and they went through into the misty, cool February morning. “We’ll see.”

* * *

That night in bed, after sweet, slow lovemaking, Cleo told Fletcher what Ashlyn had said about Belinda.

She felt the movement of his shoulder as he shrugged. “They’re good people, Belinda’s folks. And they dote on Ashlyn. She went back for long visits twice last year. And she’ll stay with them again this spring for a week or so.”

“Stay with them where?”

“Bridgewater, New Jersey. It’s about twenty miles north of Princeton. Belinda grew up there—and she moved back when we separated.”

“But I hadn’t realized Ashlyn lived with her grandparents while Belinda was alive. I thought—”

“Cleo, it’s not a huge mystery. She was a single mother and her parents looked after Ashlyn so she could work.”

“Belinda worked?”

Fletcher canted up on an elbow and looked down at her. “What? That surprises you? You work.”

“Well, Celia mentioned that she didn’t think Belinda had a job while you were married….”

The recessed lights in the bedroom were turned low, casting his face into shadow. Still, she couldn’t miss the flash of his white teeth as he grinned. “Celia just happened to mention that, huh?”

“Okay, I asked. And yes, I’m curious about what went wrong between you and Belinda.”

He touched her cheek, traced the line of her hair where it fell against the side of her throat. “What do you want to know?” He sounded—what?—resigned maybe.

Still, her heart lifted. Whatever his attitude, he was willing to talk. “Oh, only everything …” She laid her palm against his warm chest and felt the low chuckle as it rumbled through him.

“Belinda got a job in some clothing store, I think. She left Ashlyn with her mother pretty much round-the-clock. She would stay with them on the weekends.”

“Belinda was close to her parents, then?”

“Very—and why don’t you go ahead and fill me in on what Celia just happened to tell you.”

“Be glad to.” She repeated all that Celia had said.

When she was done, he was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Belinda died of a stroke. It was a complete shock to everyone….”

She laid her hand on the side of his face. “Fletcher?”

He bent close enough to kiss the tip of her nose. “Why do I sense more questions coming?”

“Maybe because you’re a very smart man.”

There was a moment. She had a feeling he would tell her that they’d talked of this enough. But then he said, “All right. Fire away.”

She did exactly that. “What happened … between you two? Why did you end up divorced?”

He caught her wrist, gently opened her fingers and placed a warm kiss in the heart of her palm. Then he pressed her hand to his chest again. “Belinda hated Atlantic City. She didn’t like the gaming industry and she missed her hometown. And I was working killing hours—even more so than now, if that’s possible—trying to establish myself and move up. She felt … deserted by me, I guess you could say. I didn’t understand why she couldn’t try harder to fit into my world. And it really got to me that she would resent my working hard when, in the end, I was working for us, for our future.

“By the last year we were married, she was spending more time in Bridgewater than with me. She told me she was pregnant and that she wanted a divorce in pretty much the same sentence. She also wanted full custody. I gave her everything she asked for—alimony and child support and sole custody of the baby. All of it. I was bitter. I felt she hadn’t tried hard enough to make things work. I threw money at her and told myself I was glad to be rid of her.”

“But … what about Ashlyn?”

“You want the hard truth?”

“Please.”

“I didn’t think a whole lot about her. My accountant sent the money and I went on with my climb up the gaming-business ladder—and you don’t approve, do you? I can see it in the way you’re pointing your chin at me.”

“No, Fletcher. I don’t approve.”

“Neither do I. Now. But the ugly truth is, until Belinda died and I met Ashlyn for the first time, she just wasn’t real to me.”

“How sad—for her. And for you.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“But I’m glad that at least you and your daughter finally … found each other. And that you have a good relationship with Belinda’s parents. That’s important, I think, for her to know her mother’s side of the family.”

“I think so, too. Any more questions?”

“Not right at the moment.”

“Don’t hesitate. Anytime you’re the least bit curious, ask away.”

“Oh, don’t you worry. I definitely will.” As she looked up through the shadows into his pale eyes, she felt she knew enough now about what had ended his marriage to Belinda that this particular part of Fletcher’s past wouldn’t nag at her mind so much. “And thank you.”

“For …?”

“Helping me to understand.”

“I live to serve.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Cleo?”

“Hmm?”

“Kiss me.”

“Great idea.” She smiled and lifted her mouth to his.

Friday, she and Fletcher planned to have lunch at Club Rouge, but he called at the last minute to say his meeting was running late.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, his voice low and intimate, causing shivers to skitter along her skin. “Tonight …”

Cleo settled for a sandwich at one of the sidewalk cafés along the indoor boulevard between the casino and Hotel Impresario. She’d just placed her order for a BLT and a large iced tea when a feminine voice said, “Cleo Bliss. It’s been a while.”

She looked up. “Andrea. How are you?”

“Oh, you know …” The showgirl slid into the seat across from her. “Workin’. I’ve got a featured part in Cancan du Bal.”

“Hey. That’s good news, huh?”

“I’m doing okay.” The waitress trotted back over bearing a menu. Andrea waved it away. “Brush-up rehearsal in ten minutes. You know how it goes….”

“I remember. Yes.”

Andrea flipped a swatch of thick dark hair back over her shoulder and recrossed her long denim-clad legs. Cleo had done two shows with Andrea, a rock revue over at the Luxor and a rip-off of Cats at one of the smaller resorts. They’d always gotten along well enough, though they’d never been what you’d call friends.