Judy Christenberry - Patchwork Family

“Certainly. Do you believe you’ll be able to help me resolve these issues?”

“Of course we will. We’re a well-respected firm, and for good reason. If, as you say, you’ve done everything you should, Mrs. Wilson won’t have a leg to stand on. Now, I just have a couple more questions.”

“Yes?” Okay, that had been a little short, less gracious. She tried again with a smile that she hoped looked better than it felt. “Of course. Please, what else can I tell you?”

“You could explain your remark about revenge.”

She closed her eyes briefly, hysterical laughter rising in her. Fighting it back, she cleared her throat and said, “I hope you’ll excuse my emotional outburst earlier. Those remarks really had no place—I’m sure Mrs. Wilson’s reasons are based on—”

Quinn folded his hands together and leaned forward, interrupting her stammering explanation. “Mrs. Blake? I understand that your feelings are not facts. It’s my job to evaluate the situation. But I need to have your impressions. All of them.”

He was right as usual, logical, calm. She definitely hated him. With a deep sigh, she avoided his gaze and abruptly began, “My husband, Christopher, is—was a native of Tyler, Mr. Spencer.”

She got more reaction that she expected. “You’re Christopher Blake’s wife?”

That question was the first non-lawyerly remark the man had made. Molly proceeded with caution. “Widow. I’m his widow. Did you know my husband?”

She already knew the answer. Christopher had spoken of Quinn Spencer occasionally, usually with bitterness because Christopher didn’t have the fortune to back him that Quinn had. It made being a playboy so much more difficult. Playboy on a budget. No, somehow that just didn’t work.

“Of course I did,” Quinn replied. “We went through school together. I wasn’t aware that he’d died. When—”

“Two years ago.” She couldn’t be that gracious. And she couldn’t be remorseful. She’d tried, but the grieving widow role required more talent than her amateur acting skills.

When she said nothing else, he prodded, “And this applies to Mrs. Wilson because…”

She licked her dry lips. “It applies because Mrs. Wilson hates my guts. She envisioned her daughter, Layla, Linda, Lannie, I don’t know, some L name, as Christopher’s wife.”

He shielded his mouth again, giving another polite cough. “I believe her name is Lila.”

She shrugged her shoulders, tired of the story. “Whatever. It seems her daughter married beneath herself because she still loved Christopher and I had stolen him, according to Mrs. Wilson.” How she wished she’d been able to give him back.

“I see.” Very lawyerly. He even nodded, steepling his hands beneath his chin.

Very nice hands. Large, strong, well cared for.

She jerked her gaze away. It immediately collided with his. A question resided in his hazel eyes. Or were they green?

What was wrong with her? The man’s eye color had nothing to do with her.

“Do you have other questions?” she asked, seeking that peaceful calm, the center of the storm that had gotten her through the past few minutes.

He stood, giving her a polite smile. “No, not at the moment. I’ll study your file. Then I’ll check with the clerk’s office to see if Mrs. Wilson has filed.”

“There’s a petition. She’s circulating a petition to all my neighbors, trying to get them to side with her, to keep me from opening.” How could she have forgotten—

He looked down at his notes. “I believe you did mention it. We won’t be able to stop her petition, but we should be able to come up with a strategy to counteract it. A petition isn’t legally binding, you know. It’s a tool for persuasion. But there are others.”

She took another deep breath. She was verging on the hysterical again. Determined not to ruin her performance of a calm woman, however pathetic it had been, Molly stood. “Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to repeat myself.” She extended her hand, trying to be professional. However, as she realized she’d removed her gloves at some point in their conversation, she also noted the brown stains on her fingers.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, snatching her hands behind her back. “I’m sorry. I’m staining some furniture and—”

“That’s quite all right,” he assured her soothingly.

Except it didn’t soothe her. She whirled toward the door, anxious to escape the most humiliating experience she’d ever suffered through.

“Your coat, Mrs. Blake?”

It was getting worse. Not only had she taken off her gloves, she’d apparently shrugged out of the old navy pea jacket she’d found in one of the closets and fallen in love with. The pea jacket that covered the stains on her sweats.

After all, she’d intended to make two stops that would take five minutes, tops, and then be back at work. It seemed silly to even think about changing.

Wrong.

“I—I’m sorry. I know I look a mess. I’m staining a table—”

“Yes, I believe you did say that. Don’t concern yourself, Mrs. Blake. This isn’t New York. We don’t have a dress code for our clients.”

Gracious answer. So why did it make her want to scream? Maybe because he was standing before her in a very expensive navy pinstripe suit and leather wing tips that would probably cover her food budget for half a year. His light brown hair, with just a touch of blond to suggest days spent in the tropics, had been expertly cut. Businesslike, of course, but with a touch of freedom, giving him a sophisticated air of self-determination. The perfect jet-setter cut.

Christopher would’ve loved it.

She shrugged on her coat without responding.

Then, sticking her hands into her coat pockets, she nodded to the man with impeccable clothes. Impeccable manners. Impeccable everything.

“I appreciate your time, Mr. Spencer. Your secretary has my address for billing. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

As an exit line, it wasn’t bad. Until she neared the door and almost tripped over a table holding an expensive vase.

She grabbed the vase and stepped back. Then, after taking a deep breath, she steadied it back in its place.

Without turning around, offering another apology or trying for a better exit line, she walked out of the office.

And prayed Amanda would get back to town at once.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Quinn said, his best smile in place. “Are you keeping warm?”

The quilting circle of older women smiled back at him, as welcoming as ever. Each lifted her cheek for the kiss he always bestowed on them, patting his arm as if he were a little boy.

Maybe that was the charm that frequently brought him to Worthington House. To the rest of the world, he was a playboy. To the ladies here in this sun-drenched room that looked out on a cold world, he was Quinn, a young lad with a good heart.

Or maybe, he reluctantly admitted to himself, these ladies were his surrogate mothers, making up for his mother walking out on her family so many years ago. His friends would laugh at the thought that Quinn Spencer longed for his mother. Or any woman.

He’d been only seven years old when his mother, Violet, had left them. They’d been in Tyler only six months, his father having relocated from New York where he left behind his lucrative career on the stock exchange for a quieter, gentler life in the small town. Elias had hoped his high-strung wife would learn to relax once she was out of the bustle of the city, but Violet couldn’t—or wouldn’t—change. She’d run off with Ray Benedict, her lover from New York, much to the shock of their social circle in the city and the residents of Tyler. Not to mention her husband and three sons.