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Emily’s brows drew together, and her rosy cheeks flushed. “Then why can’t we see Sean? Won’t he be with Noah?” She was genuinely concerned . . . and expectant.
“Another time. But we’re going to Noah’s office. Sean’s probably at home.”
Emily’s lower lip stuck out in a pouty frown. “Can’t we go see him? We don’t go to Seattle very often.”
Sheila shook her head but muttered a quick “We’ll see,” hoping to change the subject. “Hurry up and get your things.” She left Emily in her room, packing, and did the same herself. She was out the door before she remembered the checkbook. Cascade Valley’s checkbook. The one with a balance of over a quarter of a million dollars in it.
She tried to smile as she imagined herself self-righteously scribbling out a check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars and dropping it theatrically on Noah’s desk. Her smile faded as she visualized the scenario. Where was the justice she would feel? Where the triumph? And why, dear God, why wouldn’t this ache leave her heart?
* * *
It was nearly five o’clock when they arrived in Seattle. The drive had been tedious due to the combination of roadwork on the winding mountain roads and Sheila’s thinly stretched nerves. Her palms were damp on the steering wheel, her lips tight over her teeth. Emily had been quiet for most of the trip, but as they got closer to the heart of the city and she caught a few glimpses of Puget Sound, she began to chatter, asking Sheila questions about Seattle. The questions were intended to be innocent. Each one wounded Sheila anew.
“Where does Sean live?”
“Not down here. His house is near Lake Washington.”
“Have you been there?”
“A couple of times.”
“Can we go to Sean’s house together?”
A pause. The lump in Sheila’s throat made speech impossible. She tried to concentrate on shifting down as the car dipped along the hillside streets.
“Can we? Will you take me?” Emily repeated, looking at her mother with the wide-eyed innocence of only eight years.
“Maybe someday.”
The water of Puget Sound shimmered in the brightness of the warm summer sun. Seagulls dipped and dived over the salty water; huge, white-hulled ferries with broad green stripes down their sides plowed through the water, churning up a frothy wake and breaking the stillness with the sound of their rumbling engines.
Sheila parked the car across from the waterfront and stared out at the open water. Perhaps when all of this business with Wilder Investments was over, she would be able to take Emily out to dinner on one of the piers. Perhaps . . .
“Come on, Em,” she stated with renewed determination. “Let’s go.”
The Wilder Building was an imposing structure. A concrete and steel skyscraper that towered over the neighboring turn-of-the-century buildings, it proudly boasted smooth modern lines and large, reflective windows. Sheila’s stomach began to wind into tight, uncomfortable knots as she and Emily rode the elevator to the thirtieth floor.
The elevator doors parted, and they stepped into a reception area. A plump woman of about sixty greeted Sheila and Emily with a cool but efficient smile.
“Good afternoon. May I help you?”
Sheila gathered in her breath. “I’m looking for Mr. Wilder . . .NoahWilder. Is he in?”
The secretary, whose nameplate indicated that her name was Margaret Trent, shook her perfectly coiffed red tresses. “I’m sorry Miss . . .”
“Lindstrom,” Sheila supplied hastily. “I’m Sheila Lindstrom, and this is my daughter, Emily.” The daughter smiled frailly.
Maggie showed just the hint of a dimple. So this was the Lindstrom woman all the fuss was about “I’m Maggie Trent,” she said warmly. Then, remembering Sheila’s request, continued, “I’m sorry, Miss Lindstrom, but Noah doesn’t work here any longer.” Her reddish brows drew together behind her glasses. “Didn’t you know? Things haven’t . . .” Maggie quickly held her tongue. She had been on the verge of divulging some of the secrets of Wilder Investments to this slender young woman with the intense gray eyes, but she quickly thought better of it. She hadn’t gotten to be Ben Wilder’s personal secretary by idly wagging her tongue at anyone who walked through the door. Quite the opposite. Maggie was a good judge of character and could tell from the looks of the determined woman in the soft blue dress and the well-mannered child that she could trust them, but prudence held her tongue.
The look of disappointment in Sheila’s eyes did, however, give her pause. “I think that Noah was planning to go back to Portland,” she offered, leaving the rest of the sad story unsaid. It wouldn’t do to gossip.
Sheila had to swallow back a dozen questions that were determined to spring to her lips. Intuitively she knew that Maggie was privy to the workings of the Wilder household. The thought that Noah actually left staggered her, and the blood drained from her face. She had to know more. Suddenly it was incredibly important that she see him. “Is it possible to speak with Noah’s father?” she asked, tonelessly.
The secretary looked as if Sheila had hit her. “Ben?” she repeated, regaining her composure. “No . . . Mr. Wilder isn’t in.” The warmth in the woman’s eyes faded as she turned back to her typewriter. She looked at Sheila over the top of her glasses. “Was there anything else? Would you like to leave your name and number?”
“No,” Sheila said, her voice beginning to quiver. “Thank you.”
Together she led Emily to the elevator, and they began the descent. “Mom, are you okay?” Emily asked as they walked back to the car.
