Cathy Gillen - The Heiress

“So now you’re blaming me for wanting to stay married to you, is that it?”

“I am blaming you for destroying our family!” She advanced on him, voice breaking, looking if possible even more dejected and disillusioned with the situation they had found themselves in years ago. “You never should have cheated on me—on us—no matter how rejected you felt or what the situation was with us at the time. You should have done whatever we had to do to work it out and make our marriage strong and enduring instead of turning to someone else to warm your bed. And most of all—” she began to cry “—you should have honored the vows that we took, the promises we made to love each other and only each other for as long as we both live. Because if you had—if you had acted less selfishly—we would still be together now. And somewhere deep inside, Tom, you have to know that.”

Tom’s heart exploded with anger. He was tired of being painted the only wrong-doer here, tired of making apologies that fell on deaf ears. Tired of not being given the opportunity to make it up to her. “You know I’d do anything if I could take back what happened,” he said huskily, near breaking down himself. “But I can’t.”

Grace withdrew into herself, into the place where he had no hope of reaching her. “No,” she said before assuming her on-air television personality, “you can’t.”

“And that pleases you,” Tom accused.

Grace stared at him as if she couldn’t possibly have heard right. “What?”

“Let’s be honest here, Grace.” Tom decided to cut the courtesy and lay all their cards on the table. “This wasn’t all bad news to you. You wanted an excuse to lock me out of your heart and keep me out of your bed. Because all you ever wanted me for was the big house and the cushy lifestyle and the kids.”

Grace gasped in indignation. “That’s not true!”

“Isn’t it?” Tom lifted his eyebrow. As much as he loathed to admit it, he knew the truth. “You were never happy being my wife, Grace, even before Iris.”

Grace looked at him then as if she had never known him at all. “Maybe because back then that’s all I was. I needed a career. I needed—”

“Self-esteem?”

Grace reeled backward, as if he had slapped her. “You knew a career was important to me when you married me!”

“And I also knew it shouldn’t have mattered that you grew up in a small town, the daughter of parents who owned and ran a dry-cleaning store,” Tom said bitterly. He looked at his ex-wife, his heart aching. “You were everything to me, Grace. Everything. But you never let yourself believe it.”

“WELL?” Chase said when Grace met her son and his new wife for dinner at a popular downtown-Charleston restaurant.

Chase had come straight from the offices of Modern Man magazine, and was dressed, as usual, in pleated khaki trousers and a short-sleeve linen shirt perfect for the balmy September weather. Bridgett, a financial advisor, and noted author in her own right, was wearing a trim black skirt and silky black-and-white cardigan set. Grace smiled. The two of them looked so strikingly handsome together. Chase, with his wavy dark-brown hair, lively slate-blue eyes and tanned athletic presence. Bridgett, with her auburn hair, deep chocolate eyes and slender feminine frame. And more important, Grace thought, they were happy. And so much in love with each other, it filled her heart with joy.

Grace sat down and spread her napkin across her lap. “I didn’t get anywhere with him, either.”

“So he’s still on the yacht.” Chase returned to his own seat after helping Grace with her chair.

Grace nodded at both Bridgett and Chase, marveling again at how happy—how very much in love—they looked. “Yes,” she said quietly. “But you’ll be relieved to know that your father’s not drinking so much as brooding.” Feeling sorry for himself, angry at the world, at her.

Chase scowled as he opened the menu. “I’d go try and talk to him myself but I want to slug him.”

Having already decided what she wanted—the crab soup and a salad—Grace closed her menu wearily. Chase was her strongest defender, as well as her first-born and oldest son, but in this case he was also dead wrong. She regarded her son steadily and said, “This isn’t your fight, Chase. It’s mine.”

Chase clenched his jaw, at that moment looking very much like his incredibly strong-willed and stubborn father. “Wrong, Mom.” Fierce resentment gleamed in Chase’s slate-blue eyes. “When Dad betrayed you, he betrayed the whole family.”

Grace sighed and shook her head. “You still have to forgive him,” she advised calmly.

“Why?” Chase challenged. “You obviously haven’t, and it’s been what—more than twenty years now?”

What could Grace say to that? It was true. All these years and she hadn’t been able to put it out of her mind, hadn’t been able to believe Tom’s stepping out on her was merely a cry for help. But what if she’d been wrong? What if Tom’s lovemaking with Iris was as emotionally unsatisfying as her tryst with Paulo had been? Had she thrown it all away, refused to ever trust Tom again, for nothing?

CHARLOTTE WAS in the library, updating her social calendar on the computer Iris had given her and taught her how to use, when Richard walked in. He’d spent the afternoon playing tennis at the club, but was now dressed in his customary suit and tie. Knowing now was as good a time as any, Charlotte broached the subject that had been on her mind constantly for days, before he could leave for that evening’s dinner-meeting with their accountant.

“I want to hire a private detective to locate Daisy.”

The look in his eyes becoming pure resentment, Richard’s jaw clenched. “It’s out of the question.”

“Why?” Gearing up for battle, Charlotte saved the data she had just entered and watched as Richard opened the wall safe in the library. “We can afford it.” The growing success of the family antiques business, and their financial stake in it, had seen to that.

Richard released a long breath and turned to Charlotte in exasperation, “Daisy will come home when she’s ready.”

Would she? Charlotte wondered. “She’s been gone for days now,” Charlotte pointed out, unwilling and unable to suppress her worry. “We haven’t heard a word from her.”

“Which, given her likely mood, is probably just as well.” Richard moved the handgun and box of ammunition he insisted they keep for their personal safety to one side and withdrew a fat envelope of cash. He took out a number of bills and returned the envelope to the safe, setting it on top of Charlotte’s jewelry case and copies of their insurance papers, wills and real estate deeds. “Right now, Daisy is behaving like a temperamental child.” Richard shut the door to the safe, covered it with the painting and slid the money into his wallet before looking at Charlotte once again. “And I for one am glad Daisy is not here misbehaving for all our friends to see.”

“I still want to find her,” Charlotte retorted steadily.

“And I still say no.”

Richard gave Charlotte a look to let her know the conversation was closed, then exited the room. Seconds later, the front door shut behind him. The big house was cloaked in silence.

Charlotte stared at the photos of family that decorated the shelves to the right of the heavy antique desk. She didn’t know when or why or even how it happened, but the truth was indisputable now. Somewhere along the way, she had failed both her daughters. Perhaps even their son, Connor, too. During the crisis of Iris’s pregnancy, Charlotte had been so certain she and Richard were doing the right thing, keeping the affair and pregnancy from ten-year-old Connor, and sending Iris to that austere convent in Switzerland to have her baby in secret. Iris hadn’t wanted to go, hadn’t wanted to give Daisy up, but Charlotte and Richard had worked together to convince Iris that her life—indeed, all their lives—would be ruined if she didn’t do as they said.