Enright Family Collection (66 page)

“Are the interviews intended to weed out some of us?” John Dudley, the oldest in the group and a veteran of several shopping networks, fidgeted with his tie. It was no secret that his sales were mediocre and his ratings not much better.

“I don’t have a clue, John. I wish I did,” Ted told him bluntly. “Mrs. Gilbert—that’s the CEO’s secretary—said only that he wished to meet with his new employees as soon as possible.”

“Maybe there’s nothing more to it than that.” CeCe shrugged. “For him to be moving in here so quickly, before the ink has dried, maybe he’s just a real hands-on type. Maybe he does just want to meet us individually.”

“I have no problem with the hands-on type, myself.” Genevieve Cutler, the blond Marilyn look-alike, postured and pursed her lips.

“Unless those hands are placing a noose around your neck and yanking you out of your job,” Dudley shot back.

“Some of us might have more to worry about than others.” Garrett Wilson leaned against the wall with one hip, managing, as always, to look smug, his ever-present I-know-something-you-don’t-know grin grating on every other person in the room.

“If, under penalty of death, you had to choose between John Dudley and Garrett Wilson, who would be the lucky fella?” Zoey whispered between clenched teeth into CeCe’s ear.

“Oh, man, that’s a tough one,” CeCe whispered back over her shoulder while pretending to give careful consideration to her response.

“Might it not help if they switched toupees?” Zoey suggested thoughtfully.

“I don’t know how all that blond hair”—CeCe pointed a discreet finger toward Dudley’s shock of yellow hair—“would blend with Garrett’s phony tan.”

“Shhhh.” Marly Campbell, a petite blonde known for her on-air chattiness, poked Zoey in the back.

“Well, I guess we’ll have a better idea by the end of the day”—Ted held up the schedule and waved the paper slightly before the crowd—“since the first interview is scheduled for immediately after lunch.”

“Who’s the goat?” Someone asked nervously. “Who gets to go first?”

Looking down at the list, Higgins read the name. “Zoey Enright.”

“Me?” Zoey gasped. “Why me?”

“Luck of the draw, I guess,” Higgins said dryly.

“Does anyone even know who this guy is?” Garrett asked.

“By ’this guy,’ if you mean the new CEO, yes. Of course.” Higgins told him. “His name is Delaney O’Connor.”

Zoey frowned and repeated the name aloud softly.

Delaney O’Connor.

It picked at the threads of Zoey’s memory, a loose strand from somewhere long ago.

Delaney O’Connor.

Where had she heard that name before?

With a lump in her chest that felt like a ragged stone, Zoey quickly checked her sales from the three hours she had just finished and grabbed her purse from under the technicians’ desk where she had left it. She checked her watch and quickened her pace as she walked briskly toward the suite of offices that sat at the opposite side of the building from the sets. It would probably not be a good idea to keep the new boss waiting.

The handsome secretary, looking fiftyish and crisp, stood at Zoey’s approach.

“Hello,” Zoey smiled. “I’m—”

“Of course. Zoey Enright.” The secretary smiled back. “Go right on in. He’s expecting you.”

The door to the office of the CEO stood partially open. Zoey tapped on it lightly.

“Ah, Miss Enright, come in.”

Delaney O’Connor stood in the middle of his office, leaning heavily on a thick wooden cane, staring up at the oversized TV monitor suspended from the ceiling.

“Any guess where they might have found
her?”
he asked, skipping the formalities of an introduction as he nodded toward the television, where Genevieve was giggling her way through a VCR presentation.

When Zoey failed to respond, he added, “There’s a rumor going around that Miss Cutler believes herself to be the reincarnation of Marilyn Monroe. I suppose you’ve heard that one.”

Zoey nodded.

He dropped slowly onto one end of the long dark blue leather sofa that wrapped around one end of the room, leaned forward on his cane, and patted the seat next to him.

“Come sit next to me, Zoey.” He smiled broadly, perhaps a tad more friendly, more
familiar,
than Zoey would have expected.

Warily, Zoey approached the sofa, and aware that he had barely taken his eyes off her since she had entered the room, chose the cushion at the opposite end and perched upon its edge.

Oh, great. Terrific. Delaney O’Connor is a dirty old man, and I got first dibs.

She crossed her ankles and tugged on the hem of her short skirt, trying vainly to stretch the hem to reach her knees.

Correctly reading her defensive moves, Delaney O’Connor burst into laughter. “Oh, my dear, I am so terribly flattered,” he laughed. “But no, no, I only wanted to talk for a few minutes.”

She smiled warily.

“Please, forgive me if I gave you the wrong impression,” he said, still chuckling. “Please. Relax. Sit over there”—he pointed to a chair across the room—“if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

Red-faced, she hesitated, then somewhat sheepishly leaned back a little against the arm of the sofa.

“Excuse me.” The pleasant secretary poked her head into the office. “I’ve brought you some iced tea.”

“Herbal, Pm afraid,” Delaney noted, “since Pm not permitted any caffeine. And I miss it terribly.”

Pauline placed two coasters—dried flowers under a layer of laminate—onto the table that curved into the arc of the sofa, then set down two tavern-style glasses and a pitcher containing cranberry-colored liquid.

“Raspberry Zinger.” Pauline answered his unspoken question and winked at Zoey before disappearing from the office as briskly as she had entered.

“I read in the paper that your mother has just begun another book tour.” Delaney leaned over and poured tea over the ice cubes in the glass closest to him, then handed it to Zoey.

“Yes. Out West this time.” Zoey relaxed slightly, accustomed to having people ask about Delia, and impressed by the fact that the new CEO had apparently wasted no time before reading the personnel files. But, then again, one would expect someone like Delaney O’Connor to do his homework.

“Does she still enjoy the travel?”

“Yes,” she answered slowly, the glass raised to her lips. “I wondered if, perhaps, over the years, she had grown tired of it.”

“No, she hasn’t,” Zoey replied, watching his face. “Mr. O’Connor, you speak as if you know my mother.”

“We met, years ago.” He cleared his throat. “Actually, our paths crossed for a brief period—a very brief, but very significant, crossing.”

There it was again—the pricking sensation at the base of her neck. She waited for him to elaborate. A buzzer beckoned him from his desk, and he rose from the sofa
with the aid of his cane to answer it. Excusing himself to Zoey, he lifted the receiver and after a moment’s pause, said, “Yes. Please. Put him through.”

Uncomfortable at having to sit through the intimacy of listening to a stranger’s telephone call, Zoey’s eyes began to wander around the room, which had been redecorated in record time. How intriguing, she mused, that a man like O’Connor would choose to set up shop there at all, rather than to simply rely on others to run the business for him. In little under a week, O’Connor had replaced the sharp-edged high-tech chrome and glass favored by his predecessor with plush carpet, rich wall coverings, and comfortable, cushy furniture, and the blacks, whites, and grays of the prior occupant had given way to jewel colors . . . emerald green, sapphire blue, ruby red. The stark, edgy works of modern art had been removed. O’Connor had chosen instead to display photographs of various sizes, in frames of wood or brass or silver.

Zoey tried to be unobtrusive in her attempt to get a better look at the photos, which covered almost every inch of space along one wall. She leaned forward a bit, drawing closer to bring the pictures into slightly better focus. Every one had captured the same subject, a young man, dark-haired and handsome, in or near a sleek racing car. She stared at the one closest to her.

The young man leaned back against a Ferrari, his arms folded casually across his chest, his stance pure arrogance. His mouth quirked into a half smile and his dark glasses wrapped around his face like a blindfold, shielding his eyes. A jungle of dark hair tumbled over his forehead, and the orange overalls covered his body but did nothing to hide the muscular frame within. He looked, Zoey thought, every bit as sleek and dangerous as his car.

“My grandson,” Delaney said, following her gaze as he hung up the phone.

“He races cars?”

“In Europe, yes.”

“You’re obviously very proud of him,” she said.

He beckoned her toward him, and without saying a word, handed her a photo in a brass frame. Zoey held the frame into the light to get a better look.

The boy who had become the man who drove fast cars hung upside down from the bough of a tree, caught in the act of downing, of showing off, his lopsided grin playful, his face animated.

Suddenly, she could see it, and for a split second, she was there—could smell the slightly rotted apples that lay about the base of the tree, could hear the boy’s voice.

“Hey, Mrs. E.! Up here, in the apple tree. It’s me! It’s—”

“Ben,” Zoey whispered incredulously. “It’s Ben Pierce.”

The old man nodded confirmation.

“You’re Ben Pierce’s grandfather?”

Again, a slight nod of the head.

“You came to our house once,” she said softly. “I watched you from upstairs. You took Ben away. It was the night . . .”

“The night of my daughter’s funeral. As soon as his mother had been laid to rest, Ben ran away. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out where he’d run to.”

“I remember. Something woke me up and I went to the stairwell because the lights were on and I looked down. Mom was there, and Ben—I remember feeling scared because Ben looked so angry. I had never seen him look so angry.”

“Losing his mother had been a terrible blow to him, Zoey. Even though he had spent every day of her illness by her side, I don’t think he really understood what was happening. I think he almost believed that if he went back there, she would be there, waiting for him.” He turned and looked out the window, as if searching for something, before asking, “Do you remember my daughter, Zoey?”

“Of course.” She nodded. “She practically raised us. Mom used to refer to Maureen as her clone because
Maureen did everything that Mom couldn’t get to when she was writing.”

“Ah, Zoey, I have blessed your mother in my prayers every night for giving Maureen and the boy a safe and happy place to live. Lord knows the two of them had long deserved it.” O’Connor pulled himself up with the help of his cane and began to pace, somewhat uncomfortably, it appeared, back and forth in front of the sofa. “What do you know about Ben’s father?”

“Nothing.” She shrugged. “I never heard Ben—or Maureen, for that matter—speak of him.”

“Jack Pierce worked in our stables. He was handsome and lazy and charming. Right or wrong, after Maureen’s mother died, I kept the girl on a pretty tight string, to keep her out of harm’s way, I told myself. What a fool I was. She was a normal, healthy, pretty girl, and Jack Pierce was neither blind nor stupid. As I saw it, he made it very easy for Maureen to fall in love with him. Of course, when she told me she wanted to marry him, I refused to hear a word of it. But worse than that, I told her the truth as I saw it. That Jack’s only interest in her was in the money she’d inherit someday. That he didn’t really love her at all. That he saw her only as a one-way ticket to the good life. So, of course, they ran away together.” O’Connor’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I figured they’d run out of money soon enough, and then she’d come home with her tail between her legs. Well, the money ran out fast enough, that was a fact. But she had no intentions of running home, not after Jack was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver. Not after she found out she was pregnant.”

“Didn’t you try to convince her to come home?”

“Maureen was so angry with me, that she wanted nothing to do with me. I tried everything I could think of, but I could not talk her into coming home, or even to take my help. She would manage just fine on her own, thank you very much.” He leaned back against the front of his desk as if very weary. “And for years, she did manage. But through all that time, Maureen could not
forgive me for the things I had said to her. And I can’t say that I blame her. What a terrible message to give your child, that she was not loved for who she was, but only for what she had.”

“But surely you never meant . . .”

“Of course not. I only thought to protect her from someone who I believed would hurt her. But right up until the end, Maureen believed that Jack had loved her very much. And maybe he did, Zoey. Maybe I had been wrong about him from the start.”

He ran his fingers through his still thick white hair. “I’d lost my wife when Maureen was three. I thought I understood pain. But then, one day, there was Maureen, in the hallway of that big house that had waited so long for her to come home. There she stood, my beautiful Maureen. My girl had come home.” His voice dropped to a quivering whisper. “My girl had come home to die.”

If she closed her eyes, Zoey, too, could see her. Maureen Pierce had been tall and straight when she’d first come to work for Delia, who had just moved her family to the “gentleman’s farm” in Westboro. It seemed that Maureen and Ben had always been there with them, their best friends, part of an extended family. And then, before any one of them could really grasp what had happened, they were gone.

“For five months, I had my girl back with me. Five months while I nursed her and watched her grow weaker by the day. Five months for me to suffer with her, and to watch the anger and confusion and fear grow in the boy’s eyes. We grew very close, Ben and I. I have been very grateful to my daughter, for bringing me the very precious gift of her son.”

“So, you and Maureen were able to reconcile before she died?”

“Yes, yes. I have thanked God every day for every one of those minutes we were able to spend together. That she was able to forgive me. That, in spite of everything, she still loved me enough to come home.”