Dawn in Eclipse Bay (20 page)

“Was that Marilyn Thornley?” Anderson sounded awed. “The wife of the politician who quit the senate race?”

“Soon to be ex-wife.” Lillian watched the closed doors at the front of the room. “And something tells me that Claire Jensen is now an ex–campaign manager. Poor Claire. I wonder what happened? I thought everything was going so well for her in her new job.”

The front door opened again a short time later. Marilyn strode back into the room, looking cool and unruffled by the skirmish. She paused to speak quietly to the hostess. Then she walked straight toward the table where Gabe sat with Lillian.

“You know her? You know Marilyn Thornley?” Anderson asked urgently.

“Her family has had a summer place here in town for years,” Lillian explained. “Gabe is much better acquainted with her than I am, however.”

Gabe gave her what he hoped was a silencing glare. He got one of her bright just-try-to-shut-me-up looks in return.

Marilyn arrived at the table.

“Sorry about that little scene,” she said. “I had to let Claire go today. She didn't take it well.”

“Terminations are always so stressful, aren't they?” Anderson's voice throbbed with compassion. “May I say that you handled that unfortunate scene very effectively. You took complete control before things got out of hand. That's the key. Complete control.”

“Someone had to do something before she interrupted everyone's dinner.” Marilyn smiled and extended a graceful hand. “Marilyn Thornley.”

Anderson looked dazzled. “J. Anderson Flint. In town for a conference at Chamberlain. I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Thornley.”

“Please, call me Marilyn.”

“Yes, of course.”

This was getting downright sticky, Gabe mused.

“Got a new campaign manager lined up?” he asked.

“I'm putting together a short list,” Marilyn said. “I intend to announce my selection as soon as possible. This problem couldn't have come at a worse time. I can't afford to lose any momentum.”

Anderson glanced toward the door, a concerned expression knitting his brows. “I trust your former manager won't cause you any trouble. Disgruntled employees can sometimes be dangerous.”

“Claire will behave herself if she knows what's good for her,” Marilyn declared. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Flint. Any friend of Gabe's and Lillian's is welcome at the institute. Please feel free to drop by while you're in town and pick up some of my campaign material.”

“I'll do that,” Anderson said immediately.

Marilyn inclined her head. “Wonderful. Now I'll let you two get back to your meal. Have a nice evening.”

She walked away toward the booth at the rear. Anderson did not take his eyes off her.

“A very impressive woman,” he breathed. “Very impressive. So forceful. Dynamic. Authoritative. We need more people like her in public office.”

Lillian caught Gabe's eye. She looked amused.

“A perfect match,” she murmured beneath the hum of background chatter.

He grinned. “Are you speaking as a professional?”

“Absolutely.”

He knew before she started making excuses that she wasn't going to spend the night with him.

“I really need to get some sleep,” Lillian said when they walked out of the restaurant some time later. “I want to get up early tomorrow morning and try to do some work.”

“Here we go again. It's those conversations you had with your mother and Mitchell, isn't it?” He opened the door of the Jag with a little more force than was necessary. “They messed with your mind.”

She slid into the dark cave that was the front seat. “It's got nothing to do with them. I just need some quiet time.”

“Sure. Quiet time.”

“I told you earlier that I haven't gotten any real painting done since I got here. If I go home with you tonight, I probably won't get to work until noon or later.”

“Wouldn't want to interfere with your best painting time.”

He closed the door. With a little more force than was necessary.

“It's just a business,” Hampton said on the other end of the line.

“The hell it is.” He'd had enough of the familiar argument, Sullivan decided. He ended the call abruptly with a sudden punch of a button.

He ought to be used to this feeling after so many years of butting heads with his stubborn son. It was always like this whenever the subject of the future of Harte Investments arose. Hampton had done a brilliant job with the company, but he flatly refused to be concerned about what happened to it in the next generation. As if it didn't matter a damn.

It had taken him a long time to realize that, to Hampton, Harte Investments was just a business. Running the company was nothing more than a job to him. He had done it extraordinarily well but he could walk away tomorrow and never look back.

In fact, walking away from H.I. was precisely what Hampton planned to do. Sometime in the next two years. Sullivan swore under his breath and reached for his cane. He still could not believe that after having worked so hard to take the company to another level, his son was looking forward to retiring so that he could start a charitable foundation.

As far as he was concerned, Sullivan thought, charity began at home.

Just a business
.

What the hell was the matter with everyone else in the family? Didn't they understand that a company like Harte Investments was a work of art? It had required vision and sweat to bring it to life. It was the result of a lot of carefully calculated risks and farsighted strategy. It had heart. It had struggled and fought and survived in a jungle where other businesses, large and small, got eaten alive.

And now, because none of his grandchildren had any interest in the company, it would be sold or swallowed up by some other, larger, predator.

He rapped the tip of the cane sharply against the cool terra-cotta tiles of the living room floor. The small gesture did nothing to release his pent-up frustration.

Just a business
.

He stopped at the bank of floor-to-ceiling French doors that overlooked the pool.

Rachel was on her last lap. He watched her glide through the turquoise water and felt some of his anger fade. He became aware of the quiet sense of connection that he always experienced when he saw her. It calmed him and gave him a centered feeling that he could not explain. The older he got, the more he realized that Rachel helped define him. A great deal of what he knew about himself he had learned from living with her all these years.

He opened one of the glass-paned doors and went out onto the patio. It was late afternoon. The long rays of the desert sun were blocked by the walls of the house. The pool lay in comfortable shadow. In the distance the mountains were very sharp against the incredibly blue Arizona sky.

He selected two bottles of chilled springwater from the small refrigerator he had installed near the outdoor grill and lowered himself onto a lounger. He unscrewed the cap of one of the bottles, took a long swallow, and waited for Rachel to emerge from the jeweled pool. Talking to her always helped him put things into perspective.

She reached the steps and walked up out of the sparkling water. He watched her peel her swim cap off her short, silver-blond hair and admired her figure in the black-and-white bathing suit. After all this time he still felt the quiet heat of sexual attraction. She was only five years younger than he but somewhere along the line she had stopped aging, at least to him. He would want her until the day he died. And probably after that, too.

Her mouth curved as she walked toward him across the patio. “I can see that the discussion with Hampton did not go well.”

“I don't know where he gets that stubborn streak.”

“Certainly not from you.”

She picked up her white terrycloth robe, wrapped it around herself and sat down beside him. He handed her one of the bottles of cold water. She removed the cap and took a sip. They sat and watched the sunlight on the mountains. Sullivan relaxed into the lounger.

“Hampton and Elaine think that Gabe will try to marry her in order to get his hands on a chunk of Harte,” he said after a while.

“What do you think?”

“No Madison I ever knew had enough common sense to marry for money.”

“Good point. But everyone says that Gabe is a different kind of Madison. His company is his passion. He built it to prove something to himself and everyone else. It's as important to him as Harte Investments is to you.”

“I know.” Sullivan grimaced. “Just wish one or two of my grandkids felt the same way about H.I. It's Hampton's fault that none of them ever showed much interest in the company.”

“He didn't want them to feel the same kind of pressure he got from you when he was growing up.”

“Pressure, hell. I just guided him a little, that's all.”

“You groomed him for Harte from the day he was born. Made him think he owed it to you and that he had to prove he wouldn't turn out to be the same kind of wastrel Mitchell's son was. Hampton took over the firm to please you and you know it.”

“What's wrong with that? He's done a damn fine job of growing the company. He couldn't have run it that well if he hadn't had a talent for business.”

“Hampton has a talent, all right. But he wants to use it to set up that foundation of his. He's had enough of H.I. and he doesn't want any of our grandchildren to be forced into running it when he steps down.”

Sullivan groaned. “I knew Hannah and Lillian probably wouldn't take on H.I. But I had hopes that Nick would take the helm eventually. Why he had to go off on his own to write mysteries is beyond me. Don't know why anyone as smart as he is would want to waste time writing novels when he could be running a company the size of Harte Investments.”

“All three of them have followed their own stars and that's the way it should be.” Rachel patted his shoulder. “Besides, you enjoy Nick's mysteries and you know it.”

Sullivan brooded on that for a moment. “Little Carson may show some interest in business in a few years,” he said hopefully. “He's a bright kid.”

“For heaven's sake, he's only five years old. It will be ages before Carson can even think of assuming such a responsibility. You certainly can't expect Hampton to hold the reins for another two decades on the off-chance that your great-grandson might someday want to take over the business.”

Sullivan leaned his head against the back of the lounger and considered the problem.

“You're always telling me what people will do and why,” he said eventually. “Do you think Gabe Madison would marry Lillian just to get his hands on Harte?”

To his surprise, Rachel hesitated briefly. A troubled frown creased her forehead.

“It's a legitimate concern, under the circumstances,” she said finally. “Of the two boys, I think Gabe was more affected by all the baggage Mitchell carried because of the blowup of Harte-Madison. Proving to himself and everyone else that he could compete with a Harte has been a fierce source of motivation for Gabe for years. In addition, H.I. is one of his competitors.”

“Only occasionally. H.I. and M.C. have carved out different territories for the most part.”

“My point is that if he saw a chance to control a portion of Harte Investments he might not be able to resist for both emotional and business reasons.”

“The ultimate revenge for a Madison, hmm?”

“I'm not saying that it would be a deliberate act of revenge on his part. More of a subconscious motivation.”

“Subconscious, my sweet patoot.” Sullivan took a swig of his springwater and lowered the bottle. “When it comes to business, Gabe Madison knows exactly what he's doing.”

Rachel stretched her legs out on the lounger. “That stupid feud. I can't believe that it's still affecting both our family and the Madisons, too.”

Sullivan said nothing.

Rachel studied the pool for a while. “Do you ever think about her?”

When Rachel spoke in that quiet, thoughtful tone he paid attention. It meant that she was very serious.

“Who?” he asked, groping to refocus on whatever this new issue was.

“Claudia Banner. The woman who destroyed Harte-Madison and ruined your friendship with Mitchell. I've always assumed that she was very beautiful.”

He summoned up an image of the Claudia he had known all those years ago, contemplated it for a few minutes and then shrugged.

“She was a pretty little redhead. Sharp as a tack, too. Mitch and I were fresh out of the service and eager to make our fortunes. She showed us how to do it. That combination of qualities can make a woman seem pretty damn attractive.”

“Were you in love with her?”

He sensed a minefield.

“Thought I was for a time,” he said. “Changed my mind real fast when she disappeared with the total assets of Harte-Madison and dumped the company into bankruptcy. But poor Mitch had fallen for her hook, line, and sinker. He refused to believe she'd conned us. He was convinced that I had somehow used her to grab his share of the firm.”

“Hence the infamous knock-down-drag-out fistfight in front of Fulton's Supermarket and the start of the legendary Harte-Madison feud.”

“It was a long time ago, Rachel. Mitch and I were young men. Young men do dumb things.”

“You said you thought you were in love with Claudia Banner.”

“For a time.”

“Don't you know for certain whether or not you loved her?”

He gazed out at the mountains. “I now know for sure that whatever the hell I felt for Claudia Banner was not love.”

“How can you be so certain of that?”

“I didn't know what love was until I met you.”

She turned her head very quickly, obviously startled.

Then she laughed softly, leaned across the small space that separated the two loungers and kissed him lightly.

“Good answer,” she said.

“Thanks. I thought it was pretty good, myself.”

It was also the truth, he thought. But after all these years he was certain she knew that.