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“You’re being far too generous, but I thank you for saying that.”
Maris sensed a melancholia in him tonight. He’d been very glad to see her, but his jocularity didn’t quite ring true. His comic bickering with Maxine seemed forced. His smiles were good counterfeits of the real thing, but they were noticeably strained.
“Dad, aren’t you feeling well? Is something wrong?”
He cited Howard Bancroft’s funeral. “It’s tomorrow morning.”
She nodded sympathetically. “Howard wasn’t just your corporate lawyer, he was a good and trusted friend.”
“I’m going to miss him. He’ll be missed all over this city. For the life of me, I can’t understand what drove him to do such a terrible thing.”
He was grieving his loss, naturally, but Maris wasn’t entirely sure that Bancroft’s suicide was the only thing weighing heavily on Daniel’s mind. She reasoned that his mood might be in response to her own. She wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs tonight, either. She could attribute her moodiness to two things. Well, actually two people. Noah and Parker.
Noah’s explanation for his meeting with WorldView had been plausible. Daniel had even verified it. Nevertheless, it rankled that they had kept her unaware of something so vitally important to the future of Matherly Press. She had never been that busy.
Had she been anyone else, her high ranking in the company would have demanded she be kept apprised. Their personal relationships should not have been a factor. As senior vice president of the corporation, she had deserved to be informed of Blume’s poaching. As a wife, she deserved her husband’s respect.
That’s what had really infuriated her—Noah’s nonchalant dismissal of her anger.
He’d treated her like a child who could be easily mollified with a candy stick, or a pet whose trust could be earned with a pat on the head. His peacemaking platitudes had been textbook standards. Marriage 101, lesson three: How to Fight Constructively.
The way in which he’d placated her had been more belittling than his original offense. Didn’t he know her any better than to think she could be so easily defused and dismissed?
“Maris?”
She raised her head and smiled at Daniel with chagrin. “Did I drift?”
“No farther than a million miles.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Would you freshen my drink, please?” When she hesitated, he waved his hand irritably. “I know, I know. You think I’m drinking too much. By the way, I saw through that man-to-man advice Noah gave me. It came straight from you.”
“I worry about you navigating the stairs after you’ve had a few, that’s all. You’re a little unsteady to start.”
“If I get drunk tonight, you can carry me up the stairs piggyback, how’s that?” Chastening him with a look, she crossed the room to get his glass and carried it with her to the bar. “While you’re at it, why don’t you have another?” he suggested. “I think you could use it.”
She poured him another scotch and refilled her wineglass with Chardonnay. “Why?”
“Why do I think you need alcoholic reinforcement this evening? Because you look like your puppy has run away from home.”
True. She was feeling a huge sense of loss. She’d been reluctant to pinpoint the source of it and assign it a name, but in her heart of hearts, she knew its name: Parker Evans.
She resettled in her chair, and as Daniel methodically refilled the bowl of his pipe, she let her gaze wander around the room. She took in her father’s extensive collection of coveted leather-bound first editions. They were meticulously lined up on the shelves of a massive cabinet with gleaming glass doors.
She couldn’t help but compare this neat and costly library to Parker’s haphazardly crammed bookshelves. She contrasted the expensive furnishings and appointments of this room to the wicker chairs and chintz cushions in Parker’s solarium. This room had an imported marble fireplace that had been salvaged from an Italian palace. The wood mantel in Parker’s house had been carved by a slave named Phineas.
And she realized that, as much as she loved this house, this room, and the fond memories of childhood they evoked, she was homesick for St. Anne Island, and Parker’s house with its creaky hardwood floors, and the cozy guest cottage with its claw-footed bathtub.
She was homesick for Mike’s clattering in the kitchen and the click of the keys as Parker typed in his rapid, two-fingered, hunt-and-peck method. She missed the oddly harmonious racket of the cicadas, and the distant swish of the surf breaking on the beach, and the scent of honeysuckle, and the feel of the salt air, so heavy it was like raiment against her skin, and… Parker.
She missed Parker.
“Are you thinking about him?” Daniel asked softly, interrupting her thoughts. “Is he what has made you sad?”
“Made me sad? Hardly,” she said, giving her head a firm shake. “Has he made me angry? Yes. Would I like to throttle him? Definitely. He’s provoking on every level, starting with how he approaches his profession. Only rarely does he take a suggestion or criticism without first putting up an argument, which invariably turns fierce.
“He stays hidden away in that house, on that island. Lovely as the house and island are, he uses them as a refuge. He should be out among people. A writer usually seizes every opportunity to promote his work. But not him. Oh, no. He adopts this lofty attitude and pretends to be above all that, but I know better. The reason he remains a recluse is because of his disability.
