Marrying the Wrong Man (5 page)

Just as Morgan was about to broach the subject of Charlotte’s paternity, Constance returned with tea. The traditional show of hospitality didn’t offer any comfort. The way things had been going since she’d stepped foot in Harmony Falls, hers was probably poisoned.

Margaret shooed Constance away after the tray had been placed on the table, and then set about pouring. The lid of the china pot rattled as she struggled to fill each cup. Mark didn’t offer to help. Morgan didn’t dare. A lot could change in three years, but Margaret’s independent streak wasn’t likely to be among those things.

“Sit.”

Let the inquisition begin
, Morgan thought, as she followed Margaret’s command.

Mark smiled as he pushed the board game aside. It was unexpected, and comforting.

She’d never been particularly close with Mark, even when she’d been engaged to Justin. He was kind of quiet, and he had the oddest sense of humor, not to mention a crazy-strong allegiance to his mother. But he seemed like a good guy.

The sea grass chair crackled beneath her weight as she sat. Margaret slid a cup of tea toward Morgan, and then passed one to Mark.

“Thank you,” he said, raising the cup to his lips, but he waited to sip.

“This tea is cold,” Margaret said, grimacing as she swallowed. “Constance!”

Morgan sipped hers out of curiosity. Ice cold.

Mark placed his cup on the floral tablecloth and smiled again. “I knew that was coming,” he mouthed.

“Another pot, and hot,” Margaret commanded when Constance entered the room. “How hard is it to heat tea water to an appropriate serving temperature?”

“Maybe you should fire Constance and hire Morgan as your housekeeper.”

Morgan choked on her tea.

Margaret stared at her. “No. Constance’s tea skills may be lacking lately, but she can be trusted.”

“I deserve that.”

“You deserve worse than that, young lady, but lucky for you, I’m a reasonable woman.”

Mark laughed, but then Margaret gripped the table, shaking the teacups as her body jerked. The movement was followed by Mark’s groan.

She’d kicked him. Morgan hid a chuckle behind her teacup. What an odd visit this was turning out to be.

“Now, tell me about this child,” Margaret said.

Morgan set the cup to the table. How much should she tell? Ever since the positive pregnancy test, she’d been excessively protective of Charlotte. But at the very least, they needed to know the little girl wasn’t Justin’s. “Well, she’s two years old, her name is Charlotte … and she’s Charlie’s.”

Margaret seemed to mull that over, pursing her lips and squeezing her hands as they intertwined on the tabletop.

The silence was so nerve-wracking that Morgan had to fill it. “Without a job, I can’t stabilize myself enough to leave town and find a suitable place to live and raise her. I want to find a place where we won’t be judged by the Parrish name and I can build a life we can be proud of.”

Finally, Margaret nodded. “The child changes things. I’m not a heartless woman. If you knew anything about gardening, I would hire you here. The weeds are out of control, but you’d have to be able to tell a weed from a wild flower. Once again, I don’t trust you.”

It was the first time since she arrived in Harmony Falls that she was happy to be mistrusted. Hunching over Margaret’s flower beds with filthy hands and sweat beading down her back while Justin and Alice came and went for family dinners would turn this sojourn in purgatory into a stint in Hell.

“Good help is hard to find,” Mark said. Again, he wore the offbeat smile.

Constance returned. Before she could set the steaming pot of tea on the tray in front of Margaret, Mark rose from his chair.

“I’ll take that, thank you.” He reached for the pot. “And I’ll pour, Mother. You go ahead with your conversation.”

He poured fresh cups with a steady hand, leaving his mother’s less-than-f. Morgan got the feeling the cold tea hadn’t been a mistake so much as it was a concession to allow an unsteady Margaret the satisfaction of serving. It was kind of sweet and unexpected in the Mitchell household.

“You know where we need good help?” Margaret asked with one brow lifted. “At the restaurant.”

“Mother, Morgan is a lawyer. Don’t you think … ”

Lawyer or not, she was desperate. “I’ll do anything.” But preferably something that would keep her out of the line of sight of most people. Like dishwashing. She couldn’t imagine the ruckus she’d cause if she were waiting tables at the Mitchell-owned Main Street Diner.

She lifted her warm teacup to her lips and sipped.

“Good. Then it’s settled. Stop by and tell Charlie I hired you. It’s only fair he helps contribute to the financial longevity of the mother of his child. Maybe he can put you on the tables tonight and chase that one that talks like she has garbage in her mouth out the door.”

Morgan choked on the hot liquid. Charlie was cooking at the diner? No. Bryce said he had a fancy restaurant. “I … I thought … well, the diner … ”

“No. The diner is fully staffed. It’s that God forsaken, over-reaching bistro I’m talking about. It would’ve been better off a bakery, but what do I know. I got overruled by my own sons, who thought it was a good idea to financially back a talented but temperamental chef. Mutiny.”

Mark put up his hands. “Not me. I abstained from the vote.”

Was this a joke? Was this Margaret’s way of getting back at Morgan for the havoc she’d wreaked on Justin’s personal life and political career? Work with Charlie? She might be desperate, but he wasn’t, and he would never want her there.

He hadn’t even been able to finish their conversation on the porch.

“That’s not going to work,” Morgan said.

Margaret didn’t flinch. “That’s all I have.”

Then this visit had been a colossal waste of time. She stood. “I’m sorry for bothering you. Thank you for the tea.”

When Morgan was three steps from the front door, she heard Mark call out, “Wait.”

She stopped with her hand on the doorknob. “Why? So your mother can entertain herself by watching me beg and squirm some more? No, thanks. I get it, Mark. I screwed up. I made terrible decisions, and I’m going to pay for them for the rest of my life. Payback’s a bitch and all that, but even I have some pride. I’m just trying to claw my way out of the mess I made. I realize that’s going to be damn near impossible in this town.”

He frowned. “Mother wasn’t kidding. Jobs are hard to come by around here. And despite that, we can’t seem to keep the bistro fully staffed. Charlie’s food is wonderful, but he’s a control freak and moody as hell. Most people don’t want to put up with that. But you, on the other hand, have a vested interest in his success what with Charlotte being your top concern. Wouldn’t it be nice for her father’s restaurant to be stable and lucrative?” His brows knitted together, and for a second, she saw a sincerity that bore a similarity to Justin.

“Why are you being nice to me?”

Mark shrugged. “I always root for the outcasts.”

There was no way Charlie would agree to this. Yesterday, he told her she’d almost destroyed him—and that was
before
he found out about Charlotte. God only knew what sort of shape he was in today.

She staved off a shudder with a shake of her head. “Thanks, Mark, but I think it’s a bad idea. If you hear of any other jobs, will you let me know?”

Charlie’s bistro was the last place on earth Morgan would ever work.

• • •

“Charlie, it’s Will.”

Charlie leaned the sledgehammer against the wall and reached for a water bottle on the mantle. “Hey, Will. What’s up?”

“I’ve got some bad news. Amy quit.”

He closed his eyes and took a good long drink. “When? I just saw her last night and she didn’t say anything to me.”

“She called me about five minutes ago. She was scared you would yell at her.”

Like he’d yelled at her last night when she’d backed into the refrigerator and dropped a plate of ravioli. What was he supposed to do? Hug her? There was a reason for the saying, “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.”

“Hannah can wait tables with Corbin. I don’t need a hostess.”

“Corbin was hired to be your assistant chef. How long do you think he’ll stay if he’s only waiting tables?”

Charlie chucked the water bottle across the empty room. Why were people so goddamned sensitive? “Listen, I’ll call Amy and apologize.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. She was pretty upset. I have a couple applications on my desk. I’ll take a look at them first thing tomorrow and see if I can get someone in there by end of week.”

He didn’t know what was worse, running short staffed or having to train people over and over again. If only he could learn to keep his mouth shut.

It was so much harder without alcohol taking the edge off his emotions.

“Thanks, Will.”

“You’re welcome, Charlie. But you’ve got to cut me a break. My mother is ready to pull financial support and open a bakery instead. I can only hold her off so long if the place isn’t turning a profit, and right now, it’s not. Expenses are far exceeding income. Now, the food is great, and we’ve done our best to keep prices competitive, so the bad publicity from the carousel of wait staff must be keeping people away. Someway, somehow, you’ve got to find a way to get people into that restaurant and keep them there.”

Charlie nodded. If he had to have his mouth wired shut, he would. That bistro was a part of him. It was his idea, his décor, his menu, and he’d invested all of the money he’d ever saved in a measly twenty-percent share just so he could say he owned a piece of it.

Once the call ended, he drove his finger into the volume button on the wireless speaker on the mantle, filling the dusty living room of his childhood home with country music. He had a gourmet kitchen to finish.

The sledgehammer made short work of the papier-mache-like drywall between the living room and breakfast nook. A few more days off, and he could move the appliances—a six-burner stove, double ovens, and catering fridge—from the garage into the kitchen. That would be a milestone in the renovation that began when Alice moved in with Justin.

For some reason, thinking about them was a direct pass to thinking about Morgan … and Charlotte.

His chest contracted, and the sharp pain made him swing off balance, sending the sledgehammer into the floor. The wood planks shook from the blow, and one loose board lifted. Before Charlie could pound it back into place with a stomp of his boot, he saw something glistening.

He dropped to his knees, pulled back three additional loose floorboards, and discovered a stockpile of liquor covered in soot. Like a sunken treasure.

“Dad, you’re killing me.” Charlie dropped his butt to the heels of his boots and lifted his face to the ceiling.

The old man had unsuccessfully kicked the habit thousands of times before liver failure made sure he’d never drink again. Alice had thought she’d rid the house of his stashes. Who’d have thought to look under the floor?

Charlie lifted the full, filthy bottles from their tomb and lined them up on the mantle while Zac Brown Band sang about cold beer on a Friday night. It was Sunday, and there wasn’t any beer in the house, but there was liquor—enough to make Charlie forget the shit storm that was brewing beyond his front door. Between Morgan and Charlotte being in town, and the warning from Will, today was not the day Charlie needed to find liquor … unless he was looking to test his sobriety.

He traced a finger over the black label—turned gray from years of dust. The grime coated his finger as he imagined the heated sensation of the liquid coating his throat and numbing his heart. But the barrier would be temporary. The buzz would wear off, and he’d feel worse afterwards.

Still, he lifted the bottle off the mantle and carried it with him to the kitchen like he was in a trance. With a growl, he untwisted the cap and poured two fingers worth of copper-colored liquid into a juice glass.

He stared at it. His mouth watered. This was the closest he’d been to alcohol in years. But no matter how badly he wanted the drink to dull the emotions, the loudest voice in his head screamed, “Dump it.”

He really was over that dark part of his life, wasn’t he?

“Charlie, we have to talk.”

Alice.
Charlie spilled the whiskey in the sink, but he didn’t have time to hide the bottle.

“What are you doing?” She gasped and then covered her mouth a second before she lunged for the bottle and shattered it against the porcelain.

“Jesus, Alice!” He grabbed her as he jumped clear of the spraying glass and liquor.

“Don’t ‘Jesus, Alice’ me.” She drove fists into his chest. “Are you crazy?”

“I didn’t drink it.”

“Why do you have it?” Her face turned splotchy as tears ran down her cheeks.

“Alice … ” Charlie gripped her by the upper arms and shook her, hoping to calm her down, “I found it under the floor boards. It was his. Not mine.”

“Then why was it open?”

He let her go and dropped into a kitchen chair. “I don’t know. I guess I was testing myself before I dumped it.”

She screamed. “Of all the stupid, ridiculous, terrible things to do … ”

“Morgan is back.”

“I know.” She knelt beside him, rubbing a hand atop his knee. “Justin told me, a day late, and I’m not happy about that, but he told me.”

“She has the baby,” he whispered. “My baby.”

Alice’s eyes popped wide. “But I thought … ”

“She couldn’t go through with it.”

“Oh, Charlie.” She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his chest.

He sat there frozen, wondering if he could’ve handled the smallest drink—just to smooth out the edges.

“You’re a dad.”

He nodded.

She let go of him and stood. “I’m going to dump that booze, and then we’re going to talk.”

He supposed that was for the best. No matter how loud the wise voice in his head, why tempt fate? He was an alcoholic who shouldn’t be keeping company with his father’s stash. He was also a father who needed to do right by his little girl.

After this talk with Alice, he was going to figure out what his rights were as far as Charlotte was concerned, and then he was going to see her again.