from Julie didn’t mean he wasn’t being set up for a multimillion-dollar lawsuit.
“I feel bad about the accident,” he said, selecting his words with care. “While Julie and I have a disagreement as to the cause, I’d like to remind you she was riding on company grounds.”
Wilcoff heard the censure in Roy’s voice and reacted accordingly. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t do that again.”
“I’d appreciate it.” He shuddered at the thought of another accident on his property.
“Consider it done,” Wilcoff said. He seemed eager to leave. “Was that all, Mr. Fletcher?”
“Actually, no,” Roy said slowly. This next part nearly stuck in his throat, but he had no option. “I’d like to offer Julie a small settlement to compensate for her pain and suffering.”
Shocked, his head of security held up both hands. “That isn’t necessary. In fact, I think Julie would be upset—”
“I insist. I’ll have my attorney draw up the papers and we’ll consider the matter closed.”
Wilcoff shook his head. “None of this is necessary. Anyway, you should talk to Julie about it, not me. But I know she’ll feel the same way.”
“Perhaps,” Roy said, although he didn’t believe it. He was a prime candidate for a lawsuit. He’d behaved stupidly in not getting his lawyer involved earlier. That oversight was a rarity for him; he hadn’t come this far in the business world by ignoring the obvious.
“Whatever you decide, Mr. Fletcher, is between you and my daughter, but I’m certain Julie isn’t interested in a settlement.”
That’s what they all say, Roy thought cynically. Julie Wilcoff was no different from any other woman he’d ever met—or any man in the same situation.
He was worried, but he didn’t dare let it show.
Wilcoff left, and Roy started to read over the Griffin paperwork, but he still couldn’t concentrate. The truth of it was, he’d quite enjoyed his exchanges with Julie Wilcoff. True, she wasn’t the most attractive woman he’d encountered, but she possessed a quick wit and a quirky sense of humor. He couldn’t recall the last time any woman had joked with him about her size or weight. He had to admit he found it refreshing.
His phone rang and he answered it. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Fletcher,” Eleanor Johnson said, “but your mother is here.”
“My mother?” Oh, yes, now he remembered. He’d even put it in his daily planner. She’d asked about meeting him on Thursday and he’d suggested lunchtime. In his current frame of mind, he had no interest in food, but he couldn’t slight his mother. He sighed, then said with obvious reluctance, “Send her in.”
“Merry Christmas, Roy.” Disregarding his mood, his mother came into the office and hugged him.
“How are you, Mother? And isn’t it a little early for Christmas greetings?”
“Not at all,” she said, smiling at him with sparkling blue eyes. “Once December arrives, it’s never too early to say Merry Christmas.” Roy smiled in return. He sincerely loved his mother. She often frustrated him, but he did love and admire her—although he didn’t understand her. She’d allowed his father to swindle her out of a huge amount. Roy had wanted her to fight, had urged her to drag his father back into court and make him pay. Roy wanted his father’s reputation destroyed, which was what Burton Fletcher deserved, but his mother had refused to do it. His father seemed to have some regrets, if his efforts to contact Roy were any indication, but so far Roy had adamantly rejected any kind of relationship.
Instead of fighting, his mother had apparently forgiven Burton and become a hermit, living in a ridiculously small cottage on a tiny San Juan island. What really upset him was that she claimed to be “reasonably happy.” She’d been cheated, dumped and cast aside like yesterday’s junk mail and she was happy? Roy just didn’t get it.
“Are you ready for lunch?”
Roy couldn’t think of a way to tell her he didn’t feel like having lunch without disappointing her. He checked his watch.
“Is your meeting over?”
“Yup, I have half an hour.” His problem was that he couldn’t be around his mother and ignore the past. When he was with her, his heart ached for a life that was dead to him. He grieved for the innocents they’d once been, he and his mother. She’d taken one path since the divorce and he’d taken another. Hatred for his father and for Aimee consumed him. He wanted them to suffer, wanted them to rot in hell for all the pain they’d caused.
While his mother chose to forgive and forget, he chose to remember every detail, every incident, every minute of their treachery. In retrospect, he realized Aimee had been interested in his father all along. He’d never been anything more than the means to an end.
“I’ll take whatever time you have for me,” his mother said in the complacent voice that always perturbed him. “Oh,” she said, slipping her arm around his waist. “I have a painting I want you to look at one day soon.”
“Another landscape?” Without her knowledge, he’d purchased several of her pieces, displayed under whatever name she used. Mary Something? He couldn’t remember at the moment. She refused his financial help, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
“Not this time,” she said, then softly added, “This time I painted something entirely different.”
Seven
“You don’t know how good it is to see you!” Marta Rosenberg greeted Anne, throwing her arms wide. The hotel foyer was dominated by a fifteen-foot-tall Christmas tree decorated with huge shiny red balls and large gold bows. Plush leather chairs and mahogany tables created an intimate atmosphere despite the openness of the room.
Anne hugged her friend. It’d been years since they’d last visited. Nearly ten if she recalled correctly. Burton had taken a business trip to New York and Anne had accompanied him. They’d gone to a show on Broadway, gotten together with old friends and strolled through Central Park holding hands. She and Marta had met for drinks one afternoon, gossiping and laughing like the college girls they’d once been. That was long before Aimee, long before the divorce.
A familiar ache stabbed Anne close to her heart. She made an effort to ignore it; she wouldn’t allow her loss to taint this reunion.
“You look marvelous,” Marta said, stepping back to get a better view. “What have you been up to?”
Anne laughed off her old friend’s praise. “I spent most of the afternoon buying Christmas cards and wrap—after I had lunch with Roy. I swear Scrooge has more Christmas spirit than my son.” Her elegant white suit was left over from her old life. These days, she was most comfortable in jeans and an oil-smeared cotton shirt.
Marta was blond and tanned and she dressed strictly in black, no matter what the season. It was a New York thing, Anne figured. Her friend’s hair haphazardly framed her face, but Anne knew there was nothing haphazard about it. She looked chic, rich, sophisticated, and her world seemed a million miles from the one that had become Anne’s.
“Speaking of Roy,” Marta said as she led the way into the dining room. “I understand he’s making quite a name for himself.”
“I’m very proud of what he’s accomplished, but I worry about him.” She didn’t elaborate and thankfully Marta didn’t question her. Despite her determination to enjoy this evening, Anne’s thoughts went back to the lunch with Roy. He seemed preoccupied, but when she’d asked him about it, he’d brushed aside her concern. He so rarely permitted her any glimpses into his life; he’d closed himself off from her, the same way he’d shut out everyone else.
Marta announced her name to the maître d’, and they were immediately seated. The man handed Anne a leather-encased menu, and