Susan Floyd - Mr. Elliott Finds A Family

“Really?” Glenn’s speculative gaze made Beth Ann turn away.

She shook her head and then guilt pulsated in her stomach. She didn’t want to lie to her dearest friend. “He might have mentioned something about Bernie inheriting a software company…”

Glenn was silent for so long that Beth Ann looked up. Eventually he asked, “Does he want Bernie?”

Beth Ann shrugged. “Do you think he knows the truth?”

“I don’t think so, but you should probably tell him anyway.”

“Are you nuts?” Beth Ann whirled around, then burst into tears, the thought sending terrible waves of dread through her. What if Christian did want Bernie? With his money, his clout, he’d cream her in court.

Glenn enveloped her in a warm hug. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you need to tell him. Now—while you’ve got nothing to lose.”

“I have everything to lose. I could lose Bernie.”

Dear Reader,

In our ever-changing world, the definition of family shifts, as well. Families expand and contract as people come into our lives or sadly, leave. But every person in the family, whether present or not, contributes to the wisdom, love and laughter shared by all.

In this story, the family is held together by the grit and love of Bethany Ann Bellamy. Caught between the energy of a youngster at the beginning of life and the needs of an elder nearing the end, Beth Ann doesn’t have the time to nurture her own life, her own dreams. Then she meets Christian Elliott, a man of great wealth and power but little understanding of what is truly important.

Please join Beth Ann and Christian as they journey together to discover that what is most real is often least appreciated.

I love to hear from my readers, so feel free to write me at P.O. Box 2883, Los Banos, CA 93635-2883 or visit me at www.superauthors.com.

Sincerely,

Susan Floyd

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my dear friend, Annie, who’s found a family all her own.

A special thank-you to Lynne Collins, Darylee Ishimatsu,

Trix Peck, Brenda Latham, Suzanne Davis, Apryl Smith,

Leslie Grigsby and Melinda Wooten, who have all

generously shared their journey through

motherhood and their children for observation.

To Mom, Mother Bate and Grandmother Lucille—

we are forever in your debt.

To my own Fluff, a special pink elephant named Eledent.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

RAAAH! Raaah, raaah! Raaaahhh!

Bethany Ann Bellamy woke to the wail. She rolled over and groaned, steeling herself against the sound, vowing she wasn’t going to be the one to get up.

Not this time.

Just ten days old, Bernadette was Carrie’s responsibility. Beth Ann shut her eyes tightly in a vain attempt to ignore the plaintive cry of the small infant. An ache throbbed behind her left temple. She had been painting nonstop for the past month, her career as a watercolor artist just beginning to flower. With a small show in Sunnyvale opening in a matter of weeks, she didn’t have time—

Raaah! Raaah, raaah! Raaaahhh!

Beth Ann pulled the pillow around her ears. Couldn’t Carrie hear that?

Raaah! Raaah, raaah! Raaaahhh!

The unhappiness in the cry propelled Beth Ann out of bed. If she didn’t get Bernie, Iris surely would. At eighty-seven, Iris needed every moment of rest she could get. Having Carrie, pregnant and cranky, around the past months had taken its toll on all of them. Pushing her feet into worn slippers and pulling on a faded green chenille robe, Beth Ann stumbled out into the hall, her eyes bleary with sleep deprivation, her subconscious still wrestling with a problematic sap green splatter in the center of a near perfect watercolor wash. She heard a creak in Iris’s bedroom.

“I’ve got her, Grans,” Beth Ann whispered as she shuffled past.

Raaah!

Poor Bernie. It wasn’t her fault. Beth Ann padded quietly to the small room where Bernie and Carrie slept. At the sound of the door squeaking open, Bernie stared up at her, distress in her large eyes. Then her tiny mouth opened.

Raaah! Raaah, raaah! Raaaahhh!

Beth Ann scooped up the infant, gently cradling her head, pressing her close to her chest. Bernie instinctively sought to connect with a nipple.

“Shh. Bernie-Bern-Bern,” Beth Ann crooned as she rocked her, supporting her head, pushing her higher up on her shoulder. “You’re okay, sweetie. Shhhh, shhh. Bernie’s okay.”

Raaah, raaah, raaaahh, raaaahh.

“Let’s go find your mommy. Where’s your mommy?”

Raaah, hiccup, raaah?

“I know, sweetie. You’re so hungry.”

Still rocking Bernie, Beth Ann swiftly negotiated the narrow halls and sharp angles of the sixty-year-old, one-story bungalow that she and Carrie had grown up in. In the large kitchen, she took out a bottle of prepared formula from the fridge, shook it vigorously and popped it in the microwave, her hand automatically pressing buttons. As they waited, Beth Ann tickled Bernie’s rounded cheek. Twenty-eight seconds later—ding!

“Where’s your mommy, sweetheart?” Beth Ann whispered as Bernie fought against the rubber nipple, her tiny head turning away in her frustration to find suction.

Raaah, raah. Gulp. Success.

Bernie sucked greedily and stared intently at Beth Ann, her infant, frog-like eyes, protruding and blurry. Beth Ann kissed her small pink forehead, still peeling, and ran a gentle finger across the fine dark fuzz that couldn’t conceal the pulsing soft spot.

Then Beth Ann saw Carrie’s carefully formed round letters on a thick, manila legal-sized envelope lying conspicuously on the kitchen table.

I’m going crazy! I’ve got to get out of here.

I’m going back to Christian. Bernie will be fine with you.

I owe you one.

Caroline

Careful not to jostle Bernie, Beth Ann sat on a kitchen chair stunned.

No. She hadn’t. Even with postpartum depression, Carrie wouldn’t— Carrie couldn’t—

With one hand, Beth Ann opened the envelope and stared in disbelief at the quarter-inch stack of crisp, new hundred dollar bills. Back to Christian. Bernie suckled away, none the wiser, her seven pounds heavy against Beth Ann’s arm.

Yes, she had.

Her half sister had abandoned her baby.

Two years later

IN HER TWO-PIECE, yellow ducky pj’s, Bernie scuttled past Beth Ann with a toddler’s gleeful scream. The plastic no-slip on her feet slapped against the hardwood floor as she sought her ultimate destination—the out-of-doors, where the fog, thick with late spring chill, socked in the tiny one-story Victorian bungalow so badly Beth Ann couldn’t see the large gnarly oak tree twenty yards from the back door. Smothering the California Central Valley in a silent blanket of thick wet mist, the low ground Tule fog was almost comforting, protecting their home in blessed anonymity—anonymity that would be gone in one short hour, when Christian Elliott was supposed to arrive.

“Bernie.” Beth Ann tried to make her voice sound stern, but Bernie’s infectious laughter caused her lips to twitch, as the toddler, on her tiptoes, successfully turned the knob on the back door only to be stopped by the locked screen. Beth Ann thought she could actually see the heat of the house along with the precious pennies needed to provide it being sucked out by the fog. However, in a scant two weeks, when the temperatures soared into the nineties, they’d be wishing for the chill the fog brought in.