After the Dawn (5 page)

“I know what you're doing,” he said, taking the left turn that led out of town. “It's not happening. I have too many irons in the fire, plus I like my life the way it is. I don't want to be tied to a company that's having financial trouble.”

“I imagine neither do the people working there.”

He'd never been able to win an argument with his mother. She tended to be logical and thought things through. That didn't mean he wouldn't keep trying. The law of averages said he was due.

Neither said anything else on the short drive. In less than three minutes, they topped a hill. On the left side of the road a large sign read:
COLLINS INDUSTRY, FOUNDED IN 1972 BY ABE COLLINS.
In the parking lot were a mixture of old and new, economy and expensive cars and trucks. A large metal two-story building attached to a long one-story structure backed up to scrub brush, oak, and crabapple trees.

“Two of the women in my book club work there. One is a divorced mother of a five-year-old. The other one, she and her husband both work there. They have two children in college. She's so proud. They'll be the first college graduates of the family.”

Dillon shifted uncomfortably as he pulled up into the paved road leading into the complex. He'd always had a soft spot for single parents.

A stout man with his belly hanging over his belt stepped out of the manned booth. Dillon recognized him as one of the men who, as a teenager, had taunted him. There were probably other bullies working there as well. They'd never left Elms Fork.

“I wouldn't feel bad if Sparks got laid off.”

“But how do you separate the good from the bad? Unfortunately, if the company closes, no one will be spared.” She glanced at him. “We both know what it's like to live from paycheck to paycheck. But thanks to Abe, there was a paycheck.”

Putting the car in reverse, Dillon backed up and took the highway back into town. They didn't have to worry about money now, but there had been some lean years growing up. It wasn't until he was older that he'd realized his mother had gone without, saying she'd eaten already or that she wasn't hungry, so he'd have enough to eat, enough clothes, toys.

She had a steady job, but the small house she'd bought always seemed to have something that needed to be repaired. She could have rented an apartment, but she'd wanted him to grow up in a house, with a room of his own, a puppy. She'd been abandoned at age two and placed in foster care.

Never, no matter the circumstances, she never would have walked away from him. He'd never heard her say anything bad about her mother. “Life is a series of choices,” she often said. “You have to live with the good and the bad.”

She never wanted him to do without because she was a single parent. Around eleven, when he'd caught on that she wasn't eating to ensure he had enough, he'd started to say he wasn't hungry. He wasn't eating until she did. They'd both be full or hungry.

She'd cried, berating herself that she wasn't taking good care of him. It was the only time he'd ever yelled at her, the only time she'd let him. He'd told her if he had to choose a mother, he'd choose her every time.

She'd kept him, always been there for him. No other person loved him that way. As troublesome as he was, he doubted if anyone could. He was in the principal's office at least once a month. When pushed or bullied, Dillon responded with his fists.

She never scolded him or threatened him. Just cleaned him up and tried to make him realize fighting was never the answer to a problem. That he was to use the intelligence God gave him and figure out another way to solve the situation. He knew what it was to be loved, and she was the reason. Other kids might have both parents, but he bet none were loved or cared for more.

She'd cried some more, but she'd never again mentioned that she wasn't taking good care of him.

“Yeah. Although I might thank Abe on one hand, that doesn't mean I have to reorganize my life for him,” Dillon finally answered as he stopped at a signal light.

“Without your help, Samantha will be lost. She probably hasn't had to fight for anything in her life,” Marlene said. “You heard Evan mention her trust fund. Money has never been an issue for her. From what I saw this morning, she doesn't have it in her to stand up to Evan. Worse, he knows it, and will walk all over her and relish doing so.”

Dillon's mouth tightened. When he worked at Collins for those ten months, Evan treated Dillon as if he were dirt under his feet. Samantha's father, William, had been a good man and had welcomed Dillon. “You should have let me punch him.”

“He's not worth the aggravation or the risk of going to jail.”

Dillon grinned. “It's not like I haven't been there before.”

“But never charged,” she quickly pointed out. “Otherwise you wouldn't have gotten the scholarship to MIT.”

He turned into the hundred-and-fifty-foot driveway of his mother's single-story house dead center of a cul-de-sac and set in the middle of two lots. That admission letter to MIT had changed his life in more ways than one. “As mean and as bad as the sheriff and his deputies tried to be, they let me slide and called you every time they pulled me over or took me in because of who they thought my father was.”

“And you took full advantage of it.”

“I was testing my limits.” Laughing, he opened his door and got out to open hers. They started up the stone path leading to the wide front door.

He'd wanted to surprise her with the house, but the builder had convinced him that wasn't a good idea. Women had certain ideas about their home. Dillon was glad he'd listened. The two-story red brick had turned into a one-story yellow stucco with sweeping flower beds in front, stone walkways, and generous use of one-way glass.

He followed her inside through the airy foyer with twin tables flanked by cane-backed chairs. The house was as warm and as inviting as she'd intended.

He hadn't been sure about her choice of a dove-gray palette for the home's interior, but it had turned out perfect. There were splashes of yellow and red and green in flowers, pillows, and artwork. The effect was cool and serene.

The baby grand, her pride and joy, sat just off the living room. He'd had it delivered the day she'd moved in. She'd hugged him so tightly he couldn't breathe, but both had been grinning. She didn't read music, but she played beautifully. Next to the piano was a radial arrangement of four wing chairs surrounding a round table. With the light shining through, she liked to sit there and knit.

Across the hall from the living room was the sunken dining room, where mirrored walls increased the brightness. Antique orchid pots with the heavy white petals of the flowers on three-foot stems and candlesticks sat on the table with seating for eight. The floor was sand-washed pine.

Through the wall of glass in the living room, he saw the flower-filled backyard, the infinity pool, the grouping of cast-iron seating, and the big elm trees in the back away from the pool, where a chaise longue waited for her to read and relax on. Off to the side was the newest addition, an outdoor kitchen complete with a dishwasher and refrigerator.

If he could be proud of one thing, it was giving his mother a better life, just as she had given him. “I need to get back.”

“I'll miss you.” She sat on the arm of the upholstered gray sofa. “We can go by the garage before you leave.”

“Just to say hello,” Dillon told her. “I never have to worry. Even if you do repairs and let women pay on installment.”

“Women need help now and again, and when they come to your garage, they know they won't be taken advantage of.”

“Our garage,” he corrected.

He'd opened Montgomery Garage after his mother was taken advantage of by an unscrupulous mechanic. Giving the pushy man a piece of his mind wasn't enough. His attitude clearly was, “What are you going to do about it?” It had pissed Dillon off.

Despite never wanting anything to do with Elms Fork, Dillon wasn't going to let anyone take advantage of his mother. Within a month, he had opened a garage and shifted some of his workers from his other locations until he could hire and train additional workers.

Dillon had taken great pleasure in passing out flyers at the beauty shop and grocery stores and running a full-page ad in the newspaper—vetted by his lawyer—of what the inept mechanic had done to his mother's car.

He'd offered to check any woman's car free for the next week and, if repairs were needed, give a 10 percent discount. It had been a resounding success. Women still received the 10 percent discount, and his mother managed the garage.

“Thanks for coming.”

“I'll always be here when you need me.”

“I know.” She hugged him briefly, then headed for the kitchen. “I'll fix lunch.”

“What do you plan to do with the money?” Dillon grabbed an apple from the bowl of fruit on the round white oak table and took a sizable bite. Through the window over the sink and the bay window in the kitchen nook, light filled the spacious kitchen and glinted off the glass-front cabinets and the crystal pieces inside.

“Once I have the check, I'll give it some thought.” Opening the built-in refrigerator, she pulled out a package of chicken breasts and looked at him. “What do you plan to do with your inheritance?”

He'd certainly walked into that one. “I'll go pack.”

*   *   *

After the reading of the will, Samantha's uncle and his family had been even more hostile toward her. When she couldn't take it any longer, she had retreated to her room and had lain awake most of the night, feeling alone and miserable, wishing there was just one person she could talk to and confide in.

Once she'd thought Mark was that person, but she'd been wrong. She had associates in Houston rather than close friends.

There were too many things running through her mind to sleep. The most disturbing was that her uncle was right. She didn't have the foggiest notion how to run Collins Industry.

At seven-thirty the next morning, she got out of bed, dressed, and went downstairs. Hearing her aunt's strident voice in the dining room, Samantha changed direction and went to the garage. She didn't feel up to more hard looks. After starting her car, she headed for Collins, her thoughts turbulent.

True, she'd worked around the company since she was eight—her grandfather wanted all of the family members to have a rudimentary knowledge of the company and the turbo engine—but that's all she had, a rudimentary knowledge.

She needed Dillon Montgomery. But that wasn't likely to happen. She couldn't even blame him. Although his uncle's salary was discussed, there'd been no mention of a salary for Dillon. She had her grandfather's assets, her trust fund. As half owner, he was entitled to be on the payroll. But she'd learned he didn't need the money.

After he'd left, the lawyer had filled her in on Dillon Montgomery, self-made millionaire. Oddly, she hadn't been surprised that he'd done well. He might have had a bad boy's reputation when he was younger, but when he'd worked for Collins after he'd graduated from MIT, her father had commented that Dillon's mind was razor sharp and mechanically inclined. He was going places in the industry. In a twist of fate, he had done just that while Collins had spiraled downward.

She stopped at the manned booth. A heavyset man in a gray security uniform came out. “Hello, I'm Ms. Collins, Abe Collins's granddaughter.”

The man tipped his sweat-rimmed hat. “Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry for your loss. Mr. Collins was a good man.”

“Thank you.” She swallowed. “Could you please lift the gate?”

“Yes, ma'am. Sure thing.” He scrambled back inside the booth. The arm lifted and she drove through. The plant hadn't changed in all the years since she'd been gone. The picnic tables were still under the trees for the employees to use during nice weather, the basketball goal and the baseball diamond off to the left.

Her father had been a wonderful pitcher. She and her mother had cheered him on at the annual game on the Fourth of July. There had been some good times. In her anger, she'd forgotten.

Samantha parked in the spot designated for her grandfather. She felt strange doing so, but there were no other vacant spots. Her uncle's maroon Jaguar, spotless as always, was already there. Her banged-up two-door, dirty gray Honda Civic looked pitiful beside the luxury sedan. Five years old, it showed the dents and scratches of careless drivers parking next to her and her bad judgment in trying to parallel park. At least she had hit a post and not another car.

Sitting there, she realized she was putting off going inside. She wasn't looking forward to another confrontation. She tended to want people to like her, perhaps because—with the exception of her grandfather—her family didn't. Her cousins planned to fly out this morning, so at least she wouldn't have to deal with them anymore.

Finally, she got out of the car and went inside. She didn't recognize any of the people she met in the entrance or as she moved through the hallway of the offices. She nodded, thinking she might need to call a meeting or something to introduce herself. She hesitated doing that. For one, if she did, they'd know her uncle was passed over for the position.

No matter what he thought of her, she didn't want him embarrassed. But, frankly, she didn't see another way.

She paused in front of her grandfather's door. There was a discreet sign that read,
PRESIDENT.
Her grandfather wasn't pretentious or showy. He'd built the three-story house because he'd wanted room for his two sons and their children.

His sons and their families had lived with him, but it had never been a happy household. Looking back now, she remembered that, even then, her uncle had been jealous of her father. Unfortunately, the wives and children weren't close either.

Samantha wasn't sure why there was friction between her mother and aunt, but her older cousins seemed to dislike her on general principle. They had rebuffed every attempt she'd made for them to go out together and become friends. They'd always had other plans. She'd finally gotten the message and stopped trying.