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"That's only because he doesn't understand what you're capable of. He doesn't know you the way I do."
"I've known Dan for several years," he pointed out gently. "You and I only met two hours ago."
She had no patience with that sort of logic. "Time isn't important. I have good instincts about people."
"Dan Calebow isn't the sort of man you should think about crossing, and right now, you need him a lot more than you need me. Winning football games is the only thing that counts in his life. I knew that when I convinced Carl to hire him away from the Bears."
"You're the one who hired him?"
By now, she knew Ron well enough to anticipate what was coming.
"Oh, no. Bert and Carl made the final decision."
Based on Ron's hard work. "I need some time to think."
"I don't believe there's much to think about. You gave Dan your word, didn't you?"
"I did, but…"
"Then that's that."
Ron was right about one thing, she thought glumly. She didn't like the idea of crossing Dan Calebow.
Chapter 7
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The humid night breeze blew the curtains and ruffled Molly's dark brown hair as she sat in a rocker by her bedroom window reading Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca. Although Molly knew she was flying in the face of literary criticism, she thought Daphne du Maurier was a much better writer than Fyodor Dostoyevski.
She liked Danielle Steel a lot better than Dostoyevski, too, mainly because the heroines in her books survived so many terrible experiences that they gave Molly courage. She knew that in real life Danielle Steel had a lot of children, and when Molly'd gotten the flu at camp, she'd had wonderful fever dreams in which Danielle was her mother. Even when she was awake, she'd imagined Danielle sitting on the side of her bed stroking her hair while she read from one of her books. She knew it was a babyish thing to think about, but she couldn't help it.
She reached for a tissue and blew her nose. The flu was gone, but she'd been left with a minor respiratory infection. As a result, the headmistress at Crayton wouldn't let her have early arrival privileges. Phoebe had been notified, and Molly had been forced to come home just a few days after her sister's return to Chicago. Not that this horrible house felt like home.
She wished Phoebe would leave her alone. She kept making suggestions about renting movies or playing a card game together, but Molly knew she only did it out of duty. Molly hated Phoebe, not just because of the way she dressed, but because her father had loved Phoebe. She knew her father didn't love her. He'd told her more than once that she gave him the "goddamn creeps."
"At least your sister has the guts to stand up to me! You look like you're going to faint everytime I talk to you." He'd told her the same thing whenever she came home. He'd criticized the quiet way she talked, the way she looked, everything about her, and she knew he was secretly comparing her to her beautiful, confident older sister. Over the years, her hatred for Phoebe had settled into a hard shell around her heart.
The distant, hollow sound of the grandfather clock chiming nine made the big house seem even emptier so that she felt smaller and more alone. She went to the side of the bed where she knelt to pull out the object she kept hidden there. Settling back on her calves, she pressed a bedraggled stuffed brown monkey with one missing eye to her chest.
She rested her cheek on a bald patch in the fur between the monkey's ears and whispered, "I'm scared, Mr. Brown. What's going to happen to us?"
"Molly?"
At the sound of her sister's voice, Molly shoved Mr. Brown back under her bed, snatched up The Brothers Karamazov, pushed Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca beneath her pillow, and resettled in the rocker.
"Molly, are you in there?"
She turned the page.
The door opened, and Phoebe came in. "Didn't you hear me?"
Molly carefully concealed her jealousy as she looked at her sister's dusty pink jeans and matching crocheted sweater. The sweater had a deep V-neck with a scalloped edge that curved over Phoebe's breasts. Molly wanted to clutch Dostoyevski to her own chest to hide its lack of shape. It wasn't fair. Phoebe was old, and she didn't need to be pretty any longer. She didn't need all that blond hair and those slanty eyes. Why couldn't Molly have been the pretty one instead of a thin, ugly stick with plain brown hair?
"I was reading."
"I see."
"I'm afraid I'm not in the mood for conversation, Phoebe."
