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“I know. I’m ashamed,” she whispered. “So I’m trying to make it right.”
“Well, you can go to the police. Tell them—”
“It doesn’t matter. That’s resolved, and despite what I did, it worked out.”
“But he threatened you! You should tell the police. If they—”
She shrugged. “He has a team of lawyers, Dad. Nothing is going to happen to him.”
Her dad ran a hand over his face.
“I’m sorry,” Beth said softly. “I’m sorry I let that bastard make me afraid. But mostly I’m sorry I’ve been lying to you for so long, because it wasn’t fair to either of us.”
“Beth.” He took her hand. “Please just tell me you’re not going to stay at that place. You could get a position anywhere. You could do something amazing with your life.”
“You know what? I think I will do something amazing, actually. I just have to figure out what it is.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ERIC COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time he’d gotten drunk. He squinted down at the bottle of beer and tried to think. In college, maybe? Or just after?
Whenever it had been, he was working damn hard at rectifying it now, and his secluded, sunny patio was the perfect place to do it in privacy.
Wallace had returned to the brewery—sporting a smile beneath his beard that made clear his trip had gone well. Faron was back in Colorado and she was staying at Wallace’s house. “And,” he’d added with a gleam in his eye, “she’s a trained chef. I’m going to have her come in and cook for Jamie.”
“Jesus,” Eric muttered, taking another swig of beer. That was just what they needed, a volatile couple working side by side in the back of the brewery. It would be a disaster, but Eric was staying out of it. Jamie could hire whoever he wanted. It was none of Eric’s business. He stretched out on his patio chair and propped his feet on the railing. It was cool today, but the noon sun was hot on his chest and it felt good. Or maybe that was the beer.
As for the brewery, Eric had no idea what his business was there anymore. If he wasn’t a Donovan, who was he? But if he was a Donovan, why did he feel so out of place? Maybe he’d find an answer in the bottom of the next bottle. It was a Donovan brew, after all.
He tucked the empty into the six-pack and opened the fourth bottle. But when his phone rang, he set the beer down so hard that it foamed over onto the cement. “Shit.” He grabbed the phone, hoping it was Beth, but Tessa’s name popped onto the screen.
“Crap,” he muttered.
“Hello to you, too,” she said.
“I’m not interested in a meeting or group therapy or anything. What do you want?”
“Jeez, you’re in a bad mood.”
“Obviously.”
“Fine,” she huffed. “Just listen. It’s Mom’s birthday today, and I can’t get away. Will you buy some flowers and take them to her grave?”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, I do it every year, but I’m swamped here and I’m afraid I won’t get out before dark. Please? For Mom?”
How was he supposed to say no to that? He looked mournfully at the beer bottle. He was only very slightly tipsy, and he really wanted to get drunk enough to stop thinking about Jamie and their dad and the brewery. And Beth. Christ, he’d really screwed that up. Or she had. He had no idea what had happened.
“Fine.” He sighed.
“Thank you. There’s a little vase at the foot of the grave, so just a few flowers will do.”
“Right.”
Eric stole one last drink of beer, then headed for the shower. He did his best not to think of Beth, or what they might do in a shower, and how hot it would be. She wasn’t returning his calls. It was over. She was done.
Hell, he was done, too. She didn’t trust him and she never would. And he couldn’t trust her, either. She’d lied to him. About Roland Kendall. And about more than that.
