Second Time Around (29 page)

Never had.

Rachel turned onto her side. She couldn’t remember the last time she and her mother had actually talked about anything important. Though, in truth, it was more her fault than her mother’s. Rachel had embraced the frumpy, silent wallflower persona years ago. As her mother got more and more frenzied in her quest to become the matriarch of the volunteer-fundraiser set—or at the very least Saint Vanessa, doer of all good things—Rachel had vowed never to need anything, including any attention. Whatever people needed, her mother was intent on supplying. In response, Rachel became the opposite: a reverse-doer. Whatever her family wanted, she gave them the opposite. She wouldn’t sacrifice any part of her life for them. It was her life.

What her family didn’t know was that her wallflower image was only put on for their benefit—and their discomfort. Rachel knew how to wear makeup to perfection, had a stash of stylish clothes in the car, and had dozens of friends at school. She even had a boyfriend, though she was far from being to the point of wanting him to meet her family. Maybe, if the time became right, they’d elope. That would send her family into a proper tizzy. Like mother, like daughter.

Rachel suddenly noticed the pile of letters on her dresser, all nicely strapped with a rubber band. She’d found them the day her mom had left for her Alternity but had been so angry at her for leaving that she’d never looked at them. The fact her mother had
wanted
her to look was a sure way to make her
not
look.

But things had changed. As the positive information about her grandmother had come to light, Rachel’s anger had been redirected at her grandfather. And since there were only a few more days before her mother came home—or didn’t come home…

Rachel retrieved the letters and sat on the bed.

Atlanta

Yardley was impressed at how quickly the interview was arranged. After all his elusive “no comment” statements, he assumed the media was ripe, ready to be squeezed into a wine of his own creation. And there had to be an advantage to being interviewed after the crowd of wannabes, knowing what everyone else had said, getting the chance to counter it.

He
was
disappointed that the interviewer and the cameraman didn’t take his suggestion of having the interview in front of the fireplace in his home, but moved him to a chair in his den—one he never sat in, near the window. But he was willing to let them have their way on that detail. As long as he could control the rest of the interview.

They were just about to start when Yardley heard the front door open and heard Rachel’s voice: “Grandfather?”

Great.
He did not need his dowdy granddaughter to be seen by the news crew. If for some bizarre reason they wanted to interview her, he’d be mortified and humiliated. Rachel had the personality and presence of a chair. An old, threadbare chair.

She came into the den. At least he assumed it was Rachel. Her hair was styled, she was wearing makeup, and she sported a black blazer over a black turtleneck and slacks. “Rachel? What have you done to yourself?”

She ignored his question. “I see you didn’t waste any time setting up your rebuttal.”

The reporter—Jack Shamblin or Shandren?—looked up from his last-minute preparations. “And who is this?”

“This is my grand—”

“I’m Rachel Caldwell. I’m Vanessa Caldwell’s daughter and Dorian Pruitt Cleese’s granddaughter.” She looked right at Yardley. “Though
I
never had the pleasure of knowing her,” she lifted a pack of letters, “until recently.”

What does she mean by that?

Jack looked from Rachel to Yardley, then back. “Perhaps we should include you in the interview with your grandfather.”

“No!” Yardley found himself standing and calmed himself. “No, thank you. I’d rather do this solo.”

Jack looked at his watch. “I understand that, but we
would
like to hear from the daughter, and in the interest of time…” He motioned to a crew hand to bring another chair over. Within seconds, Rachel was ensconced next to her grandfather. She set the stack of envelopes she’d been carrying on the floor beside her.

The way she was smiling so smugly… Yardley wanted to call a time-out. Something wasn’t right. Something was up. Every instinct told him it wasn’t good. But he couldn’t back out now, not when he’d made such a fuss to get this interview.

“Well then,” Jack said, settling into the chair near Yardley. “Why don’t we begin?” He turned to the camera, gave a signal, then smiled. “We’re here today with Yardley Pruitt, the father of Time Lottery winner Vanessa Caldwell, and Rachel Caldwell, her daughter.”

Yardley tried to ignore Rachel’s presence and smiled into the camera. “I’m also the president of Fidelity Mutual Bank, a very successful regional institution. Perhaps you’ve heard our slogan: ‘Fidelity Mutual Bank: We’ve Got Your Number.’ We have a dozen branch—”

“Thank you, Mr. Pruitt. Your standing in the business community is well known. But today, what we’d really like to know is, when did you first realize you knew David Stancowsky?”

How rude.
“When I kept hearing the name of his company over and over,” he sighed, “and
over
on the news.”

“Mr. Stancowsky is the CEO of Mariner Construction, an international, multibillion-dollar—”

Yardley s nerves were already on edge and this statement… “Yes, yes. We could all recite that in our sleep by now.”

Jack’s eyebrows rose. “So how do you know Mr. Stancowsky?”

“He built a bank building for me back in the seventies. Did a shoddy job of it, too. If memory serves, we ended up withholding money from him because of the workmanship.”

“Perhaps we’ll ask Mr. Stancowsky about it if he comes back.”

“I could tell you more. I believe it had something to do with faulty concrete work in the parking lot.”

Jack cleared his throat. “Let’s move on and let you tell us about your ex-wife, Dorian Pruitt Cleese, the woman your daughter has traveled back in time to see. She sounds like an interesting woman.”

Yardley did not let himself look at Rachel but let a snicker escape. “She was amazing all right. Amazingly stubborn. The empress of the hippies, she had absolutely no sense of propriety and decorum.”

Another raised eyebrow. “How so?”

Yardley hadn’t planned on citing any specific incidents and racked his brain for one. Rachel was leaning slightly forward as if she wanted to hear, too. “There was this one important dinner party at our home where she decided to go all organic. All natural. And she had on some weird folk music. Judy somebody and—”

“Judy Collins?”

“Whatever. The point is, by the end of the evening, she and the clients were all singing along to the record, drinking wine, having a grand old time.”

“It sounds nice. What was the problem?”

They didn’t include me.
“Uh… it wasn’t… appropriate.”

Jack gave Yardley another incredulous look, causing him to quickly add more information. “No matter what I said to her, no matter how often I pleaded with her, Dorian would not do things my way, the proper way. She had a strange manner of looking at things, of approaching life.”

“She won numerous teaching awards for her strange manner of looking at things, of approaching life. She was also active in many environmental causes.”

This was not going well. He had to think of something else… “Dorian left us to pursue her hippie lifestyle. She left Vanessa—who was a needy teenager—and me. And she showed absolutely no interest in us again.”

“She never made contact?”

“Never.” He put on his best pained expression. “It was tough raising a teenager alone.”

He noticed Rachel open her mouth to speak. Jack must have, too, because he turned his attention her way. “Ms. Caldwell. Did you ever have a chance to meet your grandmother?”

“No, I didn’t. At least not exactly.” Rachel collected the stack of envelopes, placing them in her lap. She had the address side turned downward so Yardley couldn’t see what they were. They looked like letters. What letters could have any bearing on this particular moment in—

With difficulty, he pried his hands off the armrests of the chair and placed them on his thighs.

“What have you brought with you?” Jack asked.

She slapped the pile. “These letters prove that my grandmother did not leave my mother willingly.” She nodded toward Yardley.
“He
divorced
her.
And he kept my grandmother from having any contact with her daughter.”

“And those letters are from whom?”

Yardley broke in. “I really don’t see how this has any relevance—”

Rachel continued. “They are from my grandmother to my mother.” She turned the stack over and showed the camera the addressed side. “See? ‘Return to sender.’” She nodded toward Yardley. “He sent them all back. He was the one who kept mother and daughter apart. On purpose. He intercepted all phone calls, all visits…”

Jack turned to him. “Is this true, Mr. Pruitt?”

He wanted to grab the letters away, throw them in the garbage. “There were extenuating circumstances.”

“Such as?”

He couldn’t think of any and had only repeated the line because he’d heard it said often—though he
did
have the uneasy feeling it was usually used by guilty parties when they were put on the spot. He stood. “This interview is over.” He walked away, but his lapel mike pulled him back. He ripped it off.

Once in the hall, he realized he had no place to go. This was his house. These people were intruders. He should go back in the den and order them out.

But he stopped when he heard Jack continue the interview. “How did you get possession of these letters, Ms. Caldwell?”

He was doomed. He hurried upstairs and locked himself in his bedroom. They’d all pay for this. They could count on it.

It was unfortunate that the windows in Yardley Pruitt’s bedroom faced the back of the house. He’d heard commotion downstairs—doors opening and closing, people coming and going. He’d heard the sound of car engines. He put his ear to the door. Had everyone finally gone?

Had Rachel gone?

He never wanted to see her again. Only grandchild or no only grandchild, she’d sealed her fate with her betrayal. He’d call his lawyer in the morning and have his will changed.

But wait. He needed to see if Vanessa came back before he did that. Who knew if there would be
any
Caldwell women listed in Yardley Pruitt’s will.

Actually, he hoped Vanessa
did
come back. It would prove that life with Mommy dearest wasn’t what it was cracked up to be. It would prove that she chose him, that life here was ideal and better than anything science could create. It would prove he was a good father.

He leaned against the door. Scratch that.

He was a horrible father. Or at least that’s what the world would think. He didn’t know why he’d returned all Dorian’s letters or why he hadn’t let Vanessa see her. But when the first letter had come, he’d impulsively sent it back, which had started a pattern that he hadn’t been able to break. Because to suddenly let the two of them communicate would have allowed them to compare notes, and Vanessa would have found out the truth about who left whom.

The truth he’d kept hidden for over thirty years.

He thought he heard a sound. He whipped open the door. “Rachel?”

He moved to the railing overlooking the stately foyer and perked up his ears. Nothing but silence—and the faint ticking of the grandfather clock marking the passing of time.