Where Rivers Part (7 page)

Greer was vice president of marketing and sales, which she admitted caused her great pause. “It's never a good idea to consort with co-workers,” she told herself, while in the back of her mind she knew the position was perfect and that she'd not likely duplicate another in the San Antonio market anytime soon.

In the end, and after much encouragement from Greer, she'd thrown caution aside and accepted the job, with the proviso that their relationship remain their private business and not be disclosed to anyone at Larimar Springs.

Without really deciding, she'd also never introduced Greer to her mom—unsure why exactly, other than dating relationships seemed to have a shelf life of no more than two years, it seemed. When relationships hit that mark, a couple often faced a crossroads—you'd either head for marriage or drift apart like ships without any navigation tools on board.

She had no reason to believe her connection with Greer would turn out any different. She wasn't interested in marriage, so why invite pressure from her mother to reconsider?

And why risk any discrimination in the minds of their co-workers, who might believe Greer had pulled strings to get his girlfriend hired on at an executive level? Never mind she'd completed her doctorate, making her far more qualified than other candidates.

No doubt, working together under these circumstances would require a calculated mind-set, but both she and Greer were professionals. They would handle it.

Juliet pulled through the country club gates and into the parking lot twenty minutes before the scheduled tee time. Across the sculpted drive, near a clump of towering banana palms, she spotted Greer's silver Jaguar parked next to Alexa Carmichael's black Aston Martin.

She needled into a spot near the gate that led to the tennis courts
and swimming area. After collecting her gear, she made her way to the entrance, where terra-cotta pots filled with glossy green sego palms secured each side of massive oak doors framed in intricate wrought iron.

Inside the clubhouse, Greer and Alexa stood at the counter, dressed in golf attire. “Juliet, I'm so glad you could join us.” Alexa gave her arm an affectionate squeeze.

The man behind the counter handed Greer two sets of keys. “Your carts will be waiting on the portico, sir.”

Only then did she notice another man standing on the other side of Greer, several feet away. He seemed vaguely familiar.

Suddenly, recognition dawned and her gut filled with trepidation. Once again, it seemed Greer had played her and she'd been caught off guard.

Alexa's bright coral lips parted into a wide smile. “Juliet, you've not had a chance to meet Cyril Montavan.” She motioned with her open hand. “Of Montavan International—our new business partner.”

Juliet nearly toppled her golf bag while extending to shake. “Yes, hello. So nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” The charming man took her hand and gently squeezed, holding his palm against her own for several seconds before he released. Their new partner could have doubled for George Clooney, her mother's favorite Hollywood actor. Especially the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

Golf didn't seem to be the only kind of game Greer Latham was playing this afternoon. He should have given her a heads-up. She intended to punish him with an appropriate glare, but her gaze landed on the back of his polo as he rushed forward to open the door for Alexa.

Outside, the warm air smelled of freshly mown grass with a hint of cedar. Alexa pulled on her sunglasses and adjusted her visor. “I'll share a cart with Cyril. Juliet, you don't mind riding with Greer, do you?”

“No, of course not.” She took a deep breath and handed over her bag to the attendant, watching as the fresh-faced young man fastened their clubs to the back of the cart. “So long as he doesn't drive us into any water hazards.” She gave a brittle laugh and climbed into the passenger side of the cart.

“No guarantees,” Greer joked as he took his place in the driver's seat next to her. He pressed his foot against the accelerator and followed Cyril and Alexa's cart to the first tee box.

In a casual manner, Greer rested his hand on the steering wheel as they drove in silence past a water feature surrounded by lush, manicured landscaping. As soon as he cut the engine, he leaned over. “You're acting like something's wrong.”

Juliet stared out over the contoured green. “Why didn't you let me in on the fact we'd be playing with Cyril Montavan?”

“Because I didn't know either, until Alexa phoned me on the way over to tell me.” He stepped from the cart. Not bothering to hide his irritation, Greer moved to the back of the cart and pulled his driver from the bag. With a light laugh, he slipped off the cover. “What are you accusing me of?”

Juliet kept her voice low. “I'm not accusing you of anything. I just—” She shook her head. “I don't like surprises, that's all.”

Greer tucked his club under his arm and opened a box of balls with his free hand. “Wasn't intentional,” he assured her. “I was as taken off guard as you.”

Juliet retrieved her own driver, grabbed the ball Greer handed her, and followed him up the mound. She didn't believe him, not entirely, but for now no good purpose would be served in coming across as insecure.

Cyril stepped up to the tee box and prepared for his shot. Before lining up, he looked back in their direction. “Any pointers?”

Greer pulled his glove from his back pocket. “This par four has a slight dogleg to the left. Watch that bunker. I normally try to favor the right center of the fairway.”

At her turn, Juliet set her tee and ball and lined up. Despite her impressive twenty-eight handicap, her mouth went dry. She knew more than her golf game was on show today. Pushing aside her sudden nerves, she tucked her chin and pulled her arms back. Using measured force, she swung, making sure to follow through. Thankfully, she made a clean shot down the fairway. Satisfied, she let out the breath she'd been holding, tucked the shaft of her driver under her arm, and pulled off her glove.

“I can see we're playing with pros.” Cyril gave Juliet a warm smile as Alexa stepped up to the mound.

“Juliet is a pro all the way around.” Greer's eyes met hers as if to say, “I'm on your side here.”

She decided to believe him. Until the seventh hole.

The drink cart pulled up as Juliet was enjoying the fact she'd birdied the sixth to Greer's double bogey, thanks to a rare pulled shot that landed him in the hidden bunker.

Greer stepped from the cart and motioned to Cyril. “Do you want a beer?”

Cyril shook his head. “No. Not for me. A soda would be fine. Thank you.”

Alexa pulled a small jeweled case from her golf bag, opened the lid, and retrieved a wet wipe from inside. She swiped the back of her neck. “I'm dying for an iced coffee.”

Greer looked to Juliet.

“That's good for me as well,” she said, then drained the last of the bottle of water she'd been nursing.

While Alexa and Greer placed an order, Cyril joined Juliet at the rear of Alexa's cart, several yards away. “You have an impressive curriculum vitae,” he said. “Yesterday, when Greer offered to host us as guests at his club, I was glad to hear you would be joining us so I could meet you personally.”

Despite the compliment, Juliet's internal alarm rang. “Yesterday?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “When Alexa and Greer picked me up at the airport.”

“Here you are.” Greer approached with a can of soda in his hand. “Cyril, I hope you like Dr Pepper—also known as Texas nectar.”

Her so-called boyfriend watched her, proprietary and cool. But there was something else in his eyes too. Something calculating.

So her suspicions were well-founded. Greer had lied to her. What Juliet didn't understand was why.

Rolling the dimpled golf ball between her fingers, she smiled, realizing he must feel threatened by her to go to such an extreme to keep his professional edge. Not exactly a bad thing.

Some might wonder how she could compartmentalize competing at work while maintaining a romantic friendship. The answer was easy, really—she'd duplicate what many men did every day.

Her father proved you could live two separate lives with a smile pasted on your face.

Alexa pulled on her glove and stepped to the ladies' tee box. Like everything Alexa Carmichael did, her swing was perfectly smooth. She smacked the sweet spot, sending the ball into the air in a straight line two hundred yards down the fairway. “There you go. That's how it's done,” she boasted.

Juliet made a decision. She'd keep what she'd discovered to herself. Tuck the tidbit away and use the revelation to her advantage. Clearly, Greer hadn't recognized the level of competence she'd bring to the mix, or that he'd be forced to share a little of that spotlight he often basked in.

She sauntered back to the cart and slid into the leather bench seat next to Mr. GQ, with his perfect hair and manicured nails.

Without Greer knowing, she'd turn the tables and continue to shine at work, no matter how nervous it made him feel. She wasn't the type to stand down in order to eliminate the risk of losing a man.

Juliet would score.

And not just on this golf course.

 9 

J
uliet had been home from the golf course less than an hour when her cell phone rang.

“Hey, Juliet. It's me, Tavina. Sorry to call you at home on a Sunday night, but I just learned my extended family is arriving from New Orleans in the morning and we want to take them to Water Circus tomorrow. Would it be too much trouble if I took the day off?”

Juliet mentally scanned her calendar. “No, that should be fine. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Really? Oh, thanks so much. I really wanted MD to get time with his little cousins.”

To borrow from a popular cliché, Tavina believed the sun rose and set on her three-year-old boy, a cute little guy with big brown eyes and a dimpled smile. Tavina named him Marquis DeAndre Mosely. “That's the only way we're likely to have an MD in the family,” she said with a laugh.

The few times Tavina had brought little MD to the office, he was surprisingly well-spoken for a toddler. He'd also been trained to use his manners. Juliet offered him an energy bar from her desk drawer, and he quickly said, “Thank you, ma'am.” Then, to Juliet's delight, he added, “You're pretty.”

Juliet reassured Tavina it was no trouble for her to take the day off and enjoy her family. “I can get by one Monday without you,” she told her assistant.

“I'll call the temp service and arrange for a replacement,” Tavina offered.

“No, don't worry about it. It's only one day. I can ask the receptionist to help out if I need anything.”

Juliet hung up the phone and headed for the kitchen, where a can of Pacific Chai tea she'd found at Whole Foods last week was calling her name. Before she could put a pot of water on to boil, the phone rang a second time. This time it was her mother.

“Honey, I know it's late, but your dad and I are downtown and we're heading to the Riverwalk for dinner. Would you join us?”

Juliet groaned inside. She was pooped. The only thing she really wanted was to wrap her yoga pant–covered legs up on the couch and catch up on her DVR episodes of
The Good Wife
.

“Oh, Mom. I'm pretty tired . . .”

Silence.

“And I have an early morning,” Juliet quickly added.

“Well, sure—I understand.” Her mother paused. “Maybe another time.”

Juliet sighed. She couldn't take the disappointment she heard in her mom's voice. “Look, okay—I'll go. But I really don't want to be out late. I have a big week ahead.”

“No, no. I understand completely. We'll meet you in an hour at Casa Rio.”

After slipping on a pair of jeans and boots, Juliet ran a brush through her hair and covered her lips in a light peach gloss. Before heading out the door for the car, she grabbed her leather jacket from the hall closet, not that she expected the night air to chill enough to wear one. But hey, the coat matched her boots. That counted for something.

Traffic would be light on a Sunday night. She would get downtown
in plenty of time to meet her mother at the scheduled time. Juliet clicked on the radio. Using the designated button on her steering wheel, she scanned the stations, searching for some light jazz.

Suddenly, the term
E. coli
broadcast through the speakers. Juliet stopped the dial and turned up the volume.

“A six-year-old who fell sick late last week of suspected E. coli has died, and two more children have fallen victim to a deadly strain of O157:H7. A spokesman from Children's Hospital here in San Antonio has confirmed that the Centers for Disease Control out of Atlanta, Georgia, has been alerted and an investigation is now under way. While health officials are working to identify the source, at this juncture no one is able to confirm these incidents are related.

“People usually get sick two to eight days after ingesting contaminated food or water. Most people infected with the O157:H7 strain develop diarrhea—usually watery and often bloody—and abdominal cramps and recover within a week. But some develop more severe infection leading to hemolytic uremic syndrome, or HUS, a type of kidney failure and nervous system impairment, often deadly in children under six years old and the elderly. Listeners are strongly encouraged to take all proper precautions. More information about the symptoms of HUS and ways to prevent contracting this disease has been posted online at our website.”

Juliet's stomach clenched. The ominous report suggested more than a simple undercooked burger at a backyard barbecue. She knew many in her field would be working feverishly to identify the source and end the outbreak. Time was of the essence in these situations.

Tomorrow she'd put in some calls. See if she could help in any way.

She pulled into downtown, found a lot off Market Street, and parked her Jeep on the fourth level, next to an old green and white pickup with a bumper sticker proudly displayed in the back window that said, “I'm from Texas. What country are you from?”

Normally she would smile at the humor, but not today. Not after learning of a potential outbreak in their city.

She'd need to cut this dinner short. No doubt the scientific forums she followed on the internet would be buzzing tonight as everyone in her field closely monitored the developments.

She quickly made her way along the sidewalk and down the cement stairs to the path lining the murky black San Antonio River that snaked through downtown. The Riverwalk, lined with restaurants, hotels, and more, had long been known as Texas's number one tourist attraction. Just ahead, Juliet spotted the brightly colored patio umbrellas lining the Casa Rio.

Her mother saw her and waved. As Juliet approached, the maître d' directed her to their table.

“There you are.” Her mother placed her napkin on the table and lifted from her chair.

“No, sit.” Juliet bent and kissed her mother's cheek.

“Your father was held up.” Her mom scooted up to the table. “Something about an outbreak.”

Juliet slid into a chair opposite hers. “I heard on the radio on the way here. Does Dad know anything?”

“Not that he's been able to tell me yet.” Her mother handed her a menu. “But he promised he'd be here. We were doing a little shopping downtown when he got the call.”

“It's awful. Those kids.” Juliet shook her head. “And so unnecessary, what with everything the science community knows about food pathogens. Someone along the line clearly failed to utilize proper detection methods. Whoever is responsible should be hung by their toes from the top of the Tower of the Americas.”

“Oh, Juliet!”

“I'm serious, Mom. There's no excuse.” Her eyes scanned the entrée selections, although she didn't need to. Founded in 1946, Casa Rio was the first San Antonio business to open its doors to the river and take advantage of the unique waterfront setting. Her
family had been coming here for years, and Juliet always ordered the same thing—pollo asado, with an extra side of chunky guacamole.

The waiter took their order.

“Gracias, amigo.” Juliet handed him the menu. She looked across the table. “What's the matter, Mom? You look tired.” She scooped salsa onto a chip and brought it to her mouth.

Her mother adjusted a pair of reading glasses nested in her thick bobbed hair. “Gee, thanks a lot.”

Juliet's expression tightened with concern. “I'm serious. Maybe you're overdoing it a bit at the birthing center.” She popped the chip in her mouth, savoring the strong bite of the finely chopped jalapeños mixed with chunks of tomato and onion, garlic, and cumin.

Her mom waved her off. “A little hard work never hurt anyone. If I look a bit haggard”—she straightened her fork on the table—“maybe it's because your father dragged me all over town today looking for hatch chilies. They're past season, but he insisted on searching every farmer's market in Bexar County until he found a batch.”

“Hey, do I hear my name being taken in vain?”

Juliet glanced up. Her father appeared next to her mother. He planted a kiss on top of his wife's head and moved to take a seat next to her.

Her mother smiled at him. “I ordered the enchilada plate for you.”

“With extra green sauce?”

She nodded. “Yes, with extra sauce.”

He turned to Juliet. “Now, that's why your mama's a keeper.”

Juliet gave him a weak smile, stifling a comment that in her opinion, he was lucky her mom kept
him
around.

Her father rustled a chip from the basket and dredged it through the bowl of salsa like he was trying to drown the thing. Her mother wet her fingers and tamed a strand of his hair.

He turned to Juliet. “So, did you hear about it?”

“About?” She played dumb, stubbornly refusing to play along.

He talked while he chewed. “The outbreak. Sorry situation if you ask me.” He swore under his breath. “Today's corporations. Always cutting corners when it comes to safety.”

“Bennett—language.”

Juliet's father shrugged. “Sorry, Carol. But Juliet's hardly a little girl—”

“That's not what I'm talking about,” her mother chided. “You know I don't care for foul language.”

He slipped his hand over hers in a signaled apology.

Juliet reached for her glass of iced tea. “Why are you pinning the outbreak on some corporation? Could be a public pool for all we know, run by a municipality. Here in Texas, there were three reported cases just like that last year.”

“Not likely.” He popped another chip in his mouth and chewed noisily.

Juliet's mother held up both hands. “Look, you two, let's change the subject.”

Juliet ignored her mom's admonition and pierced her father with a sharp glare. “What do you mean, not likely?”

Her father slowly leaned back in his chair. He lifted his eyebrows. “Surely you're not unaware that statistics show—”

Juliet threw her linen napkin to the table. “Oh, c'mon. Get over yourself, Dad. The laboratories in corporations across this country employ state-of-the-art mechanisms to detect even a hint of pathogens.”

Her father smirked. “Yeah, so they don't get sued.”

“Oh, here we go.” Juliet grabbed her purse. “Look, Mom. I'm too tired for this tonight.”

Her mother's arm reached across the table. “Honey, wait—”

Juliet shook her head. “I'm sorry. I've got a lot on my mind, and it's just better if I head out.” She ignored the tears pooling in her mother's eyes. “Just have them box my dinner. You can eat it
for lunch tomorrow.” She glanced over at her father as she moved to kiss her mother's cheek.

“Carol, honey. I'm sorry.” He too reached for Juliet, remorse clearly written on his face. “I'm sorry. Juliet, please stay.”

Juliet lifted her chin and pulled her hand away. “Call me tomorrow, Mom.” She turned and scurried away, brushing past the growing crowd mingling down the sidewalk path lining the river.

She'd walked about a quarter of a block when in the distance, she heard screams over the sound of the mariachi band playing on a nearby veranda.

The music stopped. Juliet froze.

“Someone call 911!”

She turned back toward the commotion.

Her father's voice rang out. “Carol!” he screamed. “Hurry, somebody! I need a doctor!”

Looking back, Juliet marveled at how everything raced and slowed at the same time. She knew she'd dropped her purse and ran back, her feet pounding the sidewalk like a drum. Her mind simultaneously blurred and absorbed details—clumps of variegated green hostas and lacey ferns sprouting from the edge of shimmering water that reflected the hanging lights overhead. Chattering tourists sitting in a boat floating by, and the mingled smells of grilled meat and onion drifting from the open-doored restaurants.

But the single sight she would never forget was that of her mother's face turning pale gray as she lay crumpled at the base of the table, while her father heaved compressions at her chest. Her eyes—open and sightless. His—frantic and filled with fear.