Chương 10
“That is different.”
“Yes.”
She looked down.
I did not take the rest back.
Kevin moved toward the table and sat beside me.
“Did Dad know she owned Crestwater?”
Patricia nodded.
“How?”
“There was a preliminary acquisition article.”
I frowned.
“The trade piece?”
“I suppose.”
“That came out before closing.”
“He had it.”
That made sense.
The deal had leaked after a lender presentation.
The article never named me directly, but it named Meridian Crest.
My father would have connected it easily if he had already been following the company.
Kevin leaned forward.
“Then Mom found the folder after Dad died.”
“Yes.”
“And kept it.”
“Yes.”
“And three years later used something from it to negotiate a family hotel discount.”
Patricia looked at him.
“When you put it like that—”
“How else would I put it?”
“I wasn’t trying to steal anything.”
“I didn’t say steal.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking weird.”
She stiffened.
“That’s disrespectful.”
Kevin stared at her.
“Mom, you used your dead husband’s secret research into your daughter’s company to get free champagne.”
The silence that followed was so complete that I nearly laughed again.
Patricia looked furious.
Then, unexpectedly, her mouth trembled.
She turned her face away.
Kevin’s expression changed.
“Mom.”
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
I watched her reach into her handbag for a tissue.
She always carried tissues in a flat silver case.
Even grief had accessories in Patricia’s life.
She dabbed beneath one eye.
“I know how it sounds.”
Kevin said, “It sounds bad.”
“I know.”
That was new.
She did not defend herself immediately.
I waited.
She folded the tissue into quarters.
“I didn’t do it for the champagne.”
“Then why?”
She looked at me.
“I wanted to see if it worked.”
I did not understand.
“What worked?”
“Your name.”
My stomach turned.
Kevin said, “Jesus.”
Patricia ignored him.
“I called the resort, and when they told me the package price, I mentioned Meridian.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not true.”
She gripped the tissue.
“I wanted to know if they knew you.”
I stared at her.
“They did.”
“Yes.”
“What were you hoping would happen?”
She swallowed.
“I wanted someone else to confirm that you were important.”
That sentence hurt in a different place.
I said nothing.
Patricia looked miserable now, which did not make me feel better.
“I had all those papers.”
She gestured toward the memo.
“I had articles.”
Her voice tightened.
“I had photographs of you shaking hands with people I had never heard of.”
The conference room suddenly felt very small.
“I could read numbers.”
She gave a brittle little laugh.
“I’m not stupid, Mara.”
“I never said you were.”
“No, but I didn’t understand what any of it meant.”
“You could have asked me.”
“I know.”
“You had four years.”
“I know.”
The repetition came out almost angrily.
Then she stopped.
Her eyes filled again.
“I didn’t want to ask.”
“Why?”
“Because what if you told me?”
I frowned.
She looked directly at me.
“What if you told me everything, and I had to admit that I hadn’t noticed?”
There it was.
Not cruelty.
Not exactly.
Something smaller and uglier.
Shame.
I leaned back.
Kevin stared at the table.
Patricia continued.
“I knew you worked hard.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m asking because—”
“I know why you’re asking.”
Her voice sharpened.
Then softened.
“Yes, Mara.”
She took a breath.
“I knew you worked hard.”
“But you thought it was small.”
“I thought you wanted it to be small.”
I almost smiled from disbelief.
“Why would you think that?”
“Because every time I asked what you were doing, you made it sound ordinary.”
I stared at her.
“You mean every time you made a joke about my ‘little properties,’ I didn’t hand you a presentation?”
“That isn’t what I said.”
“It’s close.”
Kevin murmured, “Pretty close.”
Patricia looked at him.
He lifted both hands.
“I’m staying out.”
“You’re doing a terrible job.”
“Inherited that.”
She almost smiled.
It vanished quickly.
I looked again at the blue checkmark.
“Did Dad ever say anything about Meridian to you before he died?”
“No.”
“Nothing?”
“Not directly.”
I caught the wording.
“What does that mean?”
Patricia hesitated.
Kevin noticed too.
“Mom.”
She sighed.
“About six months before he died, we were watching the news.”
“What news?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Local?”
“I think so.”
She closed her eyes briefly.
“There was some story about a hotel renovation.”
My pulse changed.
“Which one?”
“I don’t know.”
“What city?”
“Mara, it was years ago.”
“Try.”
She frowned, searching.
“There was a brick building.”
That narrowed nothing.
“A woman was talking about historic preservation.”
My skin prickled.
“Was it the Delaney?”
Patricia looked blank.
“The Delaney House?”
“I don’t know.”
Kevin looked at me.
“What’s the Delaney?”
“Our second property.”
I turned back to her.
“Did Dad say something?”
She nodded slowly.
“He said, ‘She finally fixed the windows.’”
I stopped moving.
Kevin looked between us.
“What?”
Patricia frowned.
“I didn’t understand it either.”
I did.
The Delaney House had eighty-four original windows.
Thirty-seven required custom restoration.
The project ran over budget by nearly two hundred thousand dollars because I refused to replace them with modern units that would have been cheaper and more efficient.
My father had taught me how to reglaze a window when I was eleven.
He believed old things deserved repair if the structure was sound.
I had spent six months arguing with contractors using phrases I learned from him.
And he had known.
“He knew about the windows,” I said.
Patricia nodded.
My eyes burned.
I hated it.
I stood and walked to the counter because sitting suddenly seemed impossible.
There was a coffee machine beneath the cabinets.
Two ceramic mugs.
Packets of sugar.
I stared at them as though I had come over to make coffee.
Behind me, Kevin said quietly, “Mara.”
“I’m fine.”
No one believed me.
I picked up one of the mugs.
May you like
Then put it down.
My father had watched me build a company and never called.
