Stranger on the Shore (Mirabelle Harbor, Book 4) (27 page)

~*~

I
made the return trip to the airport once more, a few days later, when it was time for Kathryn and Sid’s flight back to Michigan.

“Be careful,” I said reflexively. Once a mother, always a mother, right?

My daughter rolled her eyes, but there wasn’t any genuine irritation behind it. Just amusement. “Of course, Mom,” she said with feigned exasperation. Once a daughter...

As Kathryn made a final run to the washrooms before she and Sid entered the Security line, Sid and I were briefly alone. He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets—now a familiar gesture—and thanked me for my hospitality to him while they were here.

“And I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said, Mrs. Gregory. About waiting until after Kathryn graduates to get married. We’ve been discussing it and considering that idea seriously. I just wanted you to know that your approval is very important to both of us, especially to your daughter, even if she doesn’t always tell you that.” Sid shrugged. “That’s really why she wanted me to come down here with her. She said she needed for me to meet you and your sister.”

Kathryn returned to find me hugging Sid. And when I hugged her goodbye, she whispered, “Love you, Mom,” in my ear.

My heart trailed after her and her fiancé, whispering, “Love you more,” with every step they took. I watched until they were out of sight.

But though my heart would always be with my daughter, the rest of me seemed to have firmly rooted itself in the Sarasota sand. For the week that followed, Joy, Abby, Lorelei, and I spent our days in a final frantic push to finish the bracelets and deliver upwards of two thousand of them to Peter Barrett, so he could get them into the Art Gala gift bags.

“He’s been absolutely wonderful,” Joy gushed.

“Just about the B.E.A.D.S. project?” Lorelei teased. “Or, perhaps, there’s something more... ”

Joy blushed. “We’ve only gone out a few times—”

“More like seven,” Abby interjected. “She
likes
him.”

“Maybe a little,” Joy admitted, but she glowed whenever she mentioned his name.

During those long, hot evenings, Gil and I spent whatever hours remained together—strolling on the beach, watching old movies, eating meals that one of us cooked, and making love late into the night.

Peter had sent Joy, Lorelei, Abby, and I beautiful gold-leaf-on-linen invitations to the Naturalacrity Art Gala, and I’d planned to bring Gil as my guest. On Thursday night, he asked me the location details—Saturday, West Whelk Country Club in Sarasota, six p.m.—and I pulled out the invitation to show him.

On the back of the envelope was an embossed company logo, which Gil kept staring at all through dinner and beyond. I watched as he repeatedly traced the design with his fingertip—a half circle, like part of a sun on the left side, with a tree sprouting up on the right side. Simple, but not a logo I’d seen before. The same didn’t seem to true for Gil, who insisted he recognized it from somewhere.

I’d dozed off on his sofa and woke around midnight to see him typing like mad on his laptop. I yawned, got up, and wandered over to him. “What’d you find, Gil?”

Despite the lateness of the hour, his eyes were wide open and he practically vibrated with an odd, anxious energy. “I had my suspicions,” he told me, “but I couldn’t find a direct link to anything definitive. Until now.” He tapped the screen with his index finger, drawing my attention to an online image that looked identical to the embossed seal on the envelope.

“What’s that symbol mean?” I asked. “The sun with the tree? Is it bad? Is Peter part of a disreputable organization or something?”

“The symbol doesn’t belong to Peter, nor does the company. I’d seen this emblem years ago, but it’s been decades since it was in use. He’d been so careful... ” he murmured.

“Peter has been careful?”

Gil shook his head, his jaw tense and his mouth pulled into a tight, unforgiving line. “It’s not about Peter. At least not directly. And the logo isn’t a sun, Marianna. That half circle is the letter ‘C’—which stands for ‘Canton.’” He exhaled heavily and rubbed his temples. “It seems Peter Barrett works for a branch of the company that belongs to my father.”

Seasons of Change

J
oy was going to flip out when he told her about this. Gil knew that with a certainty and an apprehension that settled deep in his bones. But he sure as hell didn’t want her to find out from anyone else.

Naturalacrity,
was it?

Now that Gil knew what to search for specifically, he was able to verify through family and legal channels that it was, indeed, a hidden subsidiary of the Canton Corporation.

Oh, shit.

“Do you have any reason to think your dad has been trying to hurt Joy? Or that he wanted to upset her by offering her this Art Gala opportunity?” Marianna had asked him. “Because it seems kind of... well, supportive of him. The type of thing a parent might do to help his child if, let’s say, said parent was convinced his direct help wouldn’t be welcome.”

Gil took this in, nodding slowly. He liked the goodness of spirit and intention that this explanation showed—about Marianna and
her
nature—but she didn’t know his dad.

“You might see it that way,” he said. “My dad might see it that way, at least I hope he would. Even I might sorta-kinda-maybe see it that way. But my sister? I know Joy. And she will
not
see it that way. Believe me. For her, this is pure intrusiveness, not support.”

Marianna looked at him with great empathy, yet another quality he appreciated about her. “How long can you reasonably delay telling her, Gil? Long enough for us to make it through the Art Gala on Saturday? She’s been working on this project nonstop for weeks. We all have. But it’s an especially huge night for her. I’d hate to see it ruined after all the time and passion she’s put into it.”

“I know.” The knot that had formed in his stomach when he made the connection had only grown. “And the crappiest thing is that, usually, anyone who lends Joy a hand—anyone who encourages her creativity and her causes—is someone I’d back up without question. Someone I’d see as an instant ally.” He shook his head. “But these are special circumstances.”

“Would it help to talk with Peter, perhaps? Maybe call him? I know you were never his biggest fan, but perhaps he could explain... ”

He almost laughed. He just couldn’t quite bring himself to it. “Whether or not I’m his fan is, sadly, irrelevant.” He turned away from the computer and sighed. “But it’s a necessity. Any chance you’ve got the suit’s phone number? I don’t want to have to ask Joy for it.”

~*~

P
eter Barrett was as hard to reach as a rattlesnake hiding out in the Texas brush.

Gil left him several voicemails and sent a couple of urgent emails, too, but Peter responded to none of them.

He finally managed to corner the guy just as the Art Gala was set to begin on Saturday night. Fashionable guests had begun arriving in designer clothing, sparkling jewels, and expensive vehicles. The lot of them could have fit in at the freakin’ Oscars, if they were so inclined. There was even a red carpet in the entryway.

In little clusters, the guests meandered into the country club’s ballroom, where pricey artistic displays were arranged for silent auction and with museum-like meticulousness. Gift bags were distributed by the hostesses to everyone officially on the guest list, and their names and invitations were checked with precision. Security guards manned each entrance like royal sentinels who’d be quick to remove any interlopers.

Since Marianna had the invitation and was coming separately, Gil had to wait until he could catch Peter walking out of the ballroom. The guy was in ultra-professional mode, greeting guests and schmoozing with them, completely engrossed in the pageantry of the event.

Gil wasn’t.

He waved Peter over. “We need to talk.”

“Of course,” Peter said, gazing distractedly at an older woman wearing a floor-length evening gown and enough jewelry to open her own branch of Tiffany’s. “But it’ll have to be a bit later. Part of my job is to officially welcome our Golden Tier donors, and make sure—”

“Yeah.” Gil cut him off. “That’s going to have to wait. This is important and it involves my sister, so let’s go someplace private. Right now.”

The suit eyed him warily. “Er, I... um, I’d really like to, but I’m sorry. I need—”

Gil’s patience snapped. “You need to stop deflecting me. And you need to tell me, is he coming?”

“Is who coming?”

“Gilbert Canton,
Sr
.” He put a sharp emphasis on that suffix and finally managed to garner Peter’s full attention.

The guy’s face turned an unusual shade of purple—a cross between plum and puce, actually, if Gil were to try to paint it. “You know?” Peter whispered.

“Just answer my damn question, Barrett. Do I need to worry about him showing up here tonight or not?”

“Worry about who showing up?” said a voice both he and Peter recognized at once.

Crap.

His sister was standing directly behind them. She must have just entered the building. Gil sighed and turned around.

Peter winced, but he turned to face her, too. “Oh, don’t you look lovely, Joy,” he declared.

Not that this wasn’t true, but Gil knew better than the suit that his sister couldn’t be redirected with flattery. Gil almost felt sorry for the guy as Joy’s eyes narrowed dangerously and she crossed her arms, waiting.

When neither of them immediately spoke, she took a few steps forward, leaned in close, and whispered, “Y’all should know I don’t like secrets—especially
you
.” She poked Gil in the chest and then leveled a suspicious glare at the two of them. “And I recognize a pair of guilty looks when I see them. What’s. Going. On?”

This wasn’t going to be good, but Gil was helpless to stop the train wreck this late in the game. If their dad suddenly showed up and Joy had no warning, there was no telling how she’d react. She could be very unpredictable that way.

Unfortunately, with what he knew about the connection between Naturalacrity and the Canton Corporation, there was nothing uncertain about what his sister’s reaction to that news would be—infuriated. The only damage control he could summon on the spot was to keep this private rather than public.

He motioned with his head toward one of the small rooms down the hallway, away from the ballroom entrance.

Peter took the hint and said, “Joy, let’s, um, go somewhere a bit quieter.” A very pained expression crossed his face. “I’ve got a story to tell you... ”

~*~

I
was running a little bit late.

I’d been on the phone with Ellen, checking in on how things were going for her, which was fine, thankfully (no new panic attacks), but it took me longer to get to the country club than I’d thought. I knew Gil had planned to be there before six, to see if he could finally get ahold of Peter, and it was ten minutes after the hour when I arrived at the Art Gala.

After scanning the lobby and seeing no one I knew, I checked in with the hostess at the table, entered the ballroom, and looked around in there. I felt woefully underdressed. Peter had told us it would be a “formal” occasion, but I’d expected wedding-guest attire, not Hollywood-esque glitz.

Truth be told, though, I might have blended well enough with the crowd if only I’d upped my application of makeup and the amount of bling I had on. My single strand of pearls and my dangling gold earrings weren’t going to cut it in this crowd. These women were decked out in rocks that rivaled the Crown Jewels.

I tried to catch Abby’s eye from across the room. She was wandering by a table filled with bronze statuettes, all with “nature” themes, that was set up for silent auction. She sipped from a flute of champagne and sampled a mushroom and caramelized onion appetizer pastry, which I tried, too, when the waiter came near enough to offer me one. Delicious!

Finally, Abby spotted me waving at her, and she made a beeline toward me.

“Have you been here long?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Just walked in the door. And I feel like one of the scullery maids who accidentally stumbled upon the Prince’s private party.”

“I know. Same here. Did you check out the gift bags already?”

I hadn’t yet, but I’d been given one when I entered. They were small and silver and filled with a variety of treats. Our handmade bracelets, of course, with one of Joy’s business cards attached to each one and a description of the B.E.A.D.S. project printed on the back. A twin pack of gourmet French cookies—
macarons
—freshly made by a nearby bakery. A tasteful sterling silver bottle stopper with the name of a local wine shop engraved on it. And more.

“It’s like we’re celebrities,” I whispered. “Getting spectacular gifts whenever we walk into a room. I could get used to this.”

“Yeah, seriously.” She glanced around the room. “Have you seen any of the others? Lorelei told me she wasn’t going to be able to get here until six thirty, but I’m really surprised not to see Joy or Peter around. And where’s Gil? I thought he was coming with you.”

“I should probably text him in a minute, if he doesn’t send me a message first. He was planning on coming here early to talk to Peter, but he and I were going to meet in the lobby at—
oh
.”

I stopped.

Peter Barrett had just walked into the enormous ballroom, looking very serious and a little sweaty. Not at all like his usual cool and confident self.

Ohhh
. Had he and Gil already had their chat?

As we approached him, Peter pulled at the sleeves of his suit jacket, straightened his tie, and wiped his brow.

“What’s wrong?” Abby asked him at once.

He cleared his throat but didn’t answer that question.

Oh, no.

“I have to be in here right now, but, um, Joy and Gil are in the staff lounge next to the coat room. She—they—I mean, um... ” He shook his head then pointed vaguely in the direction of their location.

“Is one of them sick?” Abby asked, confused.

But, given what I knew about Peter’s employer, I more than suspected what the real problem was.