Where Rivers Part (3 page)

Alexa glanced around, quickly surveying those gathered in the conference room, then made her way to her designated spot at the head of the table. Above, a large gilded frame hung on the wall with the company logo: L
ARIMAR
S
PRINGS
—P
URE
Q
UALITY
, G
REAT
T
ASTE
.

“Okay, people. We have a lot to cover this morning. So let's get started.” She slid into a high-backed leather chair and opened a
monogrammed leather portfolio, then gave a quick nod to Fred Macklin. The prematurely white-haired comptroller stood. With a wide smile, he passed out thick, stapled reports.

Alexa crossed her arms on the table. “As you know, Larimar Springs has enjoyed record profits over the past decade. Together, we've achieved much. Fundamentally, I believe this company is poised to do even more.” Her face lit with excitement. “That is why it is my pleasure to announce that, as of eight o'clock this morning, Larimar Springs joined with a new equity partner, Montavan International, headquartered in Milan, Italy.”

Alarm sprouted on the faces in the room. Juliet felt her own heart flutter. Mergers often meant consolidation, and consolidation often meant layoffs. Even at the executive levels.

Alexa held up her hand and smiled. “Let me quickly assure you—this is a good thing. First, Montavan International will remain a silent partner. The day-to-day operations will remain firmly under my direction. You will see very little change in the way this company does business from a practical standpoint.”

Juliet noted a catlike smile hinting at the corners of Fred Macklin's mouth. Obviously, he'd known this news before the meeting. And from the unruffled look on Greer's face, the announcement came as no surprise to him as well. She, along with the others, had been kept in the proverbial “only those who need to know” dark.

Juliet rationalized she was the newest executive team member—only on board a little over a month. It would stand to reason she'd been kept out of Alexa's inner circle on this one. Still, she felt unsettled somehow. Like she'd been late for the big game and wasn't quite up to speed on the playbook.

Alexa straightened with confidence. “The bottled water market is still highly untapped. This strategic liaison will provide additional capital, access to European markets, and growth that will not only spur opportunity for us as a company but also for individuals, both at the executive and the employee levels.”

Over the next hours, Juliet and her peers scribbled copious notes as Alexa fielded questions and reassured everyone in the meeting that the company integration with Montavan International was a smart business maneuver. The days ahead were bright, she claimed.

By the end of the meeting, Juliet found herself listening intently, believing it.

 3 

Y
our company is merging? What will that mean?” Juliet's mother bent and peered into the open oven. A distracted scowl broke across her face. “I knew the temperature in that recipe was too high,” she said under her breath. She reached with mitted hands and slid the onion tart out of the oven and onto the waiting baker's rack, then peered back at the
Bon
Appétit
magazine lying open on the counter.

Juliet swiveled her barstool and faced her mom. “Nothing from a practical standpoint. Larimar Springs will continue to run as an independent company, and the executives, including me, will move forward with our responsibilities, same as before.”

“Oh, that's good, honey.” Her mother removed the mitts and tossed them on the counter. Her forefinger poked at the tart.

Her father entered the kitchen, his feet wrapped in ratty worn slippers her mother had given him for Christmas more than ten years ago. “What's good?” Before anyone had a chance to respond, he wrapped his arms around his apron-clad wife and kissed the back of her neck.

Juliet's mom grinned and slapped him away. “Not in front of the children,” she teased. She tweaked his stubbled chin in a tender exchange, one that irked Juliet.

In college, Juliet was one of the rare few who did not have a stepmother or stepfather. At that time, her parents had been married over twenty-five years. “You don't know how lucky you are,” she was told over and over.

Marcy Elliott, a girl in her freshman biochem class, complained her own mother had cycled through four marriages, leaving a string of step-siblings trailing behind. “Holidays are a nightmare,” she'd confided. Another complained she had to be the maid of honor at her dad's remarriage to a plastic-faced woman with a love for the plastic in her father's wallet.

Yes, everyone considered Juliet one of the lucky ones. But luck had many sides.

Juliet's mom moved to the cupboard and pulled down three white plates. “Bennett, be a dear and help me set the table.” Her dad smiled and took the plates, but not before he snuck an annoying wink in her direction.

As soon as he'd left the room, her mom turned to Juliet. “I'll be glad when his classes start up again next month. Your father works nearly full-time at the institute and still has too much time on his hands every summer. Heaven help me if the university ever forces him to retire from his teaching post.”

Juliet tried to fathom her father in retirement. Like her mother, she couldn't imagine Dr. Bennett Ryan letting go of the world that so defined him, even if leaving his position allowed for spending more time with his wife.

Juliet's parents had met at a Foreigner concert in Portland, Oregon. As the story went, he took one look at Carol and knew she was “the one.” Her mother, on the other hand, claimed she hadn't been so sure at first, admitting she was attracted to the guy with rumpled light brown hair and a warm smile, but didn't quite know what to think when he stood next to her singing at the top of his lungs “I Wanna Know What Love Is”—off-key, she added.

Later, she learned his name was Bennett Ryan, he was from
Texas, and they both attended the University of Oregon in nearby Eugene, where she'd grown up. Despite his scattered appearance (she said he looked a lot like a young Harrison Ford), he was incredibly intelligent, an attribute she found very attractive.

Bennett had gazed at Carol's auburn hair and dimples and claimed he knew at that moment
exactly
what love was. After the concert, she ditched her friends, and she and Bennett headed to a little bakery nestled a half block from the Sellwood Bridge, discovering they shared a love of coconut cream pie and the popular television show
M*A*S*H
, and a disdain for all things Nixon and Watergate related. Juliet's mom was surprised to learn her dad didn't drive a truck (didn't all guys from Texas drive pickups?) but instead a Chevy Nova, the Spirit of America commemorative model made in 1976, our country's two hundredth birthday. And, she'd secretly confided, she loved his Old Spice aftershave.

Juliet had heard the story many times growing up.

Her mother picked up the tart and headed for the dining room. “Honey, grab the salad, would you?”

She slipped from the barstool and moved for the refrigerator.

Her mother had gotten her degree in social work and left her fondness for Mount Hood, the Oregon coast, and misty forests filled with flowering rhododendrons to follow her father back to Texas, embracing the arid environment with the same enthusiasm she had for life. “Yuccas and aloe have their own kind of lovely,” her mother reminded anyone who wondered why she'd left the beautiful Pacific Northwest.

Juliet followed her mom into the dining room, carrying a quinoa salad made with Kalamata olives and feta cheese. Her mother was a great cook and could often be found in the kitchen experimenting with a new recipe she'd seen on the Food Network. She seemed to always be looking for ways to stuff something healthy down Juliet's father, but every once in a while she folded to his pressure and made fried chicken and mashed potatoes with her signature cream gravy.

Unfortunately, Juliet had not inherited domesticity from her predecessors. Her gravy always ended up lumpy, or too thin, or too salty. “Don't feel bad,” her dad would say. “Few women can cook like your mother.”

Of course, he was also prone to point out other ways Juliet fell short. “JuJu, why try out for the track team? Running is not your strong suit.” Or this classic: “Don't be so hard on yourself, microbial cytology concepts are tough to comprehend. Some never manage to absorb the underlying theories. If you want to excel, you'll just have to buckle down and apply yourself.”

So when they all sat down for dinner and her father launched another judgment grenade across the table, she shouldn't have been surprised.

“I think your presentation in Chicago caught the attention of many in the audience.” He dished a generous portion of the salad onto his plate.

Many, but not my father
, Juliet thought. She stabbed a piece of poached tilapia with her fork and slid it onto her plate. “I agree. Of course, some will always be dissuaded by a vocal minority.” Juliet moved on to the onion tart, challenging him with her eyes.

Her mother glanced nervously between the two of them. “Okay, you two. No work talk at the table. Besides, I'm dying to tell you both about what's happening with the birthing center.”

Her father's gaze lingered briefly before he caved and shifted his attention to her mother. “Oh? What's going on with the center, Carol?”

“Well, donations from that last golf fund-raiser we held here at the Quarry netted enough for us to open the center two months ahead of schedule.” Her face filled with enthusiasm. “And I think we finally settled on a name. What do you both think of New Beginnings?” Juliet stared at her plate in silence while her mom chattered on. “I like the simplicity of the name. With the proper logo design, it would be perfect, I think. This center fills such a need
here in San Antonio. When we finally open,
all
women, no matter their financial means, will have access to the best in birthing care.”

True to her conciliatory nature, Juliet's mom had rallied forces to bridge a gap in medical services. Not only between the haves and have-nots, but more to her credit, she'd headed an effort to bring those with two normally opposing points of view—midwives and obstetricians—together for one purpose. She believed extracting the best from both worlds would ultimately serve women and newborns much better. She was often heard saying, “Both sides can learn from each other if they'll climb off their soapboxes and decide they don't have
all
the answers.”

Carol Ryan felt much the same about politics and religion. “We all can see things differently and still treat one another with respect.”

Of course, some years ago her mom had become a Christian, and lucky for Juliet's father, his wife had embraced the whole love and forgiveness thing.

Juliet slid her fish aside on her plate, no longer hungry.

Across the table, her father smiled at her mom, told her how proud he was of her work to fund the birthing center. Her mother let out a soft giggle when he suggested she was never more beautiful than when she'd been pregnant.

Her mom covered Juliet's hand with her own. “I remember when you were born. That was such a special night, sweetheart. I tried to keep my eyes on my focal point and breathe through the contractions, but your father distracted me. He'd pace, then kneel down and risk a peek at the action—like he was a baseball catcher or something.” She laughed.

“Truth was, I was scared to death,” her father confided. “Your mother dragged me to classes for months, but nothing prepared me for the actual birth.” His voice filled with emotion, and he looked at her. “No classroom instructor can tell you what that moment is really like—how it feels to see your daughter enter the world.”

Was he tearing up? Really?

Juliet quickly glanced at her watch. She cleared her throat. “Um—the news is on in five minutes. Mind if I turn on the television? There's supposed to be an announcement about the merger, and I don't want to miss it.”

Her mother gently squeezed her hand. “Sure, honey.” She glanced across the table and gave her husband an empathetic smile. “Bennett, let's move into the study and I'll serve dessert on the TV trays.”

Her father went for the trays while she followed her mom into the kitchen, both of their arms loaded with dirty dishes. Her mother deposited her load onto the counter, then wiped her hands on a towel. “Honey, he loves you, you know.”

She leaned and kissed her mother's cheek, caught the sweet fragrance of her patchouli-scented perfume. “Yes, I know,” she lied.

Everything in her wanted to please her mom. Certainly, everything would be simpler if she could embrace the notion that love and forgiveness conquered all. Unfortunately, Juliet had drawn a line in her own heart.

Some things she would never forgive.