A Breath of Jasmine (The Merriams Book 6)

by Ava Miles

  “It’s only art,” J.T. said. “I didn’t think about it before, but Caroline mentioned it last night after much nail biting. She’d seen a recent newspaper article about someone selling their art because they’d lost big in the financial crisis.”

  “Yeah, even billionaires are hurting,” Quinn scoffed, rising and opening the window to the unusually warm spring air Ireland was experiencing. “Millions of people around the world can’t make rent or pay for groceries. We’re a disgusting lot to complain.”

  “Exactly. Only… We’ve kinda donated it to Emmits Merriam University, but Trev could get us out of it.”

  “I’m not sure I can take another Merriam giving up on their dreams right now,” Quinn said, looking at his brother’s ashen face.

  J.T.’s mouth worked before he said, “Jesus, man. You’re crushing me.”

  “Me too,” Trev mumbled, scrubbing his face. “Maybe we should look at the numbers for the art. Maybe—”

  “It would take a while to unload the art, right?” Quinn waved his hand. “I don’t know how long we could wait. I was committed to bankruptcy. I’d given up hope on getting any offers.”

  None had come in until now. Francesca had mused there were only a few corporations in the industry that still had the cash reserves to make an offer on what would be left of Merriam Enterprises after the skincare spin-off. But the oil business had a few mavericks still around who understood the boom-and-bust times. Those were their two offers.

  “Quinn,” J.T. said, coming over to sit next to him on the couch. “We could unload the big names fairly quickly, I think, in an online auction. Flynn could set it up.”

  “He’s helping the girls grieve,” Quinn said. Grieving was something he understood, although his grief wasn’t over a death, but over a lost future—the life he’d imagined sharing with Francesca. Alice had tried to talk to him, comfort him actually, but he couldn’t share how he was feeling with her or anyone. Not even his mother. It hurt too much, and he didn’t like being raw and emotional period, least of all in front of anyone.

  Trevor shook his head. “Flynn could use a break. Mom can step in a little more and so can Caitlyn. With much of the perfume work scuttled or postponed, she’s got some time.”

  “The girls aren’t as close to them,” Quinn said, but it sounded like an excuse to his own ears. He wasn’t ready for this extreme.

  “Dammit, Quinn!” J.T. snapped. “Run the numbers. People are more important than art. Jesus, we almost lost Connor. You lost Francesca. I won’t mention June again although I didn’t know her well. What the fuck good are a bunch of canvases painted by a bunch of dead guys right now?”

  His rant rendered Trevor and Quinn mute.

  “I’m going for a walk.” J.T. stalked to the door and yanked it open. “You do it, dammit!”

  After he stormed out, Quinn found his throat was thick. Trevor pressed his fingers to his brow.

  “He’s never talked like that,” Trevor said. “I mean, the guy once waxed poetic about the pastel blues of this famous French portrait painter for something like thirty minutes while I was trying to watch the World Cup. Liotard, I think. I almost killed him. But dammit, that’s why I love him.”

  Yeah, which was why Quinn was so touched by his offer. “I hear you. But shit. It’s hard for me to admit this, but I don’t know what to do.”

  “And it’s not like you can call Francesca,” Trevor said, reading his mind. “We’re too close to this one.”

  “We don’t have a lot of time either,” Quinn said.

  “Screw that.” Trevor stood up. “I’ve lost my touch as a negotiator if I can’t at least stall them. Talk to Dad. I’ll buy us some more time.”

  His belly quivered. “You want me to talk to Dad? You have the easy job, man.”

  “That’s why I’m a good negotiator.” His brother gave a maniacal laugh, which made Quinn’s lips twitch.

  “Don’t quit your day job.” Then Quinn sobered. “That was poor form. I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m trying to embrace sheep shearing. Maybe we’ll buy some cows. People will always need milk, right?”

  God, he hoped his brother was joking. “That’s what we thought about oil.”

  “Right. Shit. All right. I’ll tell Dad you want to talk to him. Later.”

  He was out the door before Quinn could stop him. Hell, maybe they should spin the bottle or flip a coin in the air to decide on the best course. Too bad all their options sucked.

  His father came in, his usually groomed hair ruffled at the back as if he’d been running his hands through it. They all needed a haircut, he supposed, but in the scheme of things, who the hell cared?

  “Trevor said J.T. had an idea.” He stood inside the door, shifting on his feet.

  His father’s antsiness, and his own, reminded him of when he was little—of those nights when he’d pretended to be asleep when his father had come into his room to tuck him in. They still weren’t completely comfortable with each other. Perhaps it was time to fix that. “Come sit down. Maybe we break open some whiskey. It’s happy hour somewhere, right?” It was only ten o’clock in the morning.

  “I don’t think I could stomach it,” his dad said, but he took a seat in the chair across from the couch. “What’s up?”

  He folded his hands and watched as his father did the same. Had their mannerisms always been so similar? “J.T. suggested we sell the art for the Merriam Museum as a way of helping the company. I know you’ve read the offers that came in by now.”

  His father nodded. “They’d get us for seventy percent less than what we were worth in January. It’s tough to swallow. But it’s tougher to imagine trying to stay afloat in this market. I’d never imagined a day like this, Quinn.”

  “No one could.”

  “I’m sorry it fell in your lap.” His dad looked down. “I wish I’d still been in charge in some ways. I could have spared you this. Plus, I’m an old man. You have your whole life ahead of you. I feel like I’ve hamstrung your career, son.”

  That python was back, squeezing him to death. His father felt like that? He found himself putting a hand on his dad’s arm. “Connor said he felt guilty too, but neither of you are to blame, Dad. We make our own choices.”

  “Your mother and I raised you to make your own choices and be your own person. But as a parent, I’m finding I want to cushion the hurt right now. Maybe years too late. I’ve asked the other kids, and perhaps it’s time to ask you.”

  Oh, God. He wasn’t sure he was ready for this, but he nodded.

  “Will you forgive me for not being there for you when you were growing up? I know you’re your own man, but I want you to know you can always come to me. With anything. I’m going to be there for you kids from now on.”

  “Sure, Dad,” he found himself saying, that damn python doing its job around his middle. “There’s nothing to forgive. I mean, it’s not like I’m a saint.”

  His dad’s mouth curled. “This might be a good time for all of us to move past those old habits and commit to supporting and loving each other. Almost losing Connor… I love you kids. I’m sorry I haven’t shown you how much.”

  Oh, hell. “I love you too, Dad.”

  His father gripped his arm. “So how much does J.T. think we could get for the art? I think Grandpa Merriam would be on board if it helped Merriam Enterprises, this family, and its employees. He knew the value of people. We can ask Clara too—and Arthur. They both knew him.”

  “I wish I had.”

  “You have his likeness and some of his ways. He wouldn’t have gone down without a fight.”

  That settled it. “Let’s go talk to J.T. and run some numbers.”

  His heart told him to fight until his last breath. But he still wished he could ask Francesca if it was the right move.

  Chapter 35

  She was alone.

  While she had been surrounded by people all week, whether in socially distanced meetings or online conference calls, no one stood beside he
r at her father’s funeral. It only heightened her sense of loss.

  Usually a death of this magnitude would have packed St. Louis Cathedral, one of Beirut’s largest churches downtown, but not in these times. The few mourners she’d invited—key Maroun family members, friends, and business associates—were spaced two meters apart at the gravesite. There would be no gathering afterward, and that suited Francesca fine. She’d elected to have no one speak to minimize the ceremony. Pomp and circumstance weren’t called for during the pandemic, only reverence for the ones who’d passed.

  Remembering her father quietly as the warm Mediterranean breeze flirted with the black lace covering her upswept hair, she realized she was exactly where he’d wanted her.

  Not where she wanted.

  Anger flared within her, so powerful she was sure the candle flames in the clear glass vessels surrounding the grave danced in response. Since she’d last seen her father in his hospital bed, she had not shed one tear over him. Rage had burned them away—all except for the tears she’d expended for Quinn and Alice and what might have been.

  Because she knew they were right. She was still dancing to her father’s tune.

  The ceremony ended, and she nodded as people quietly left the churchyard. They’d already paid their respects, although it still felt strange that no one had kissed her or embraced her in the customary fashion. My God, everything was truly upended when no one physically connected at a funeral.

  After looking at the coffin one last time, she walked down the path past fresh graves of the newly dead. They were covered in bright flowers, and her throat thickened as she read the gravestones: a man of twenty-five, beloved son; a woman of fifty-three, beloved wife and mother; a man of seventy, much like her own father. So many lives had been snuffed out by this virus—over two hundred thousand globally by the end of April—and she did not know when it would end.

  The beginning of May had proven a turning point in many places, thank God, but Lebanon’s troubles continued. Germany, Spain, Italy, Denmark, Thailand, and New Zealand looked to be coming out of lockdown. Ireland had extended its lockdown another few weeks, she’d seen, and of course she’d thought about the Merriam family ensconced in the Wild Irish Rose Inn.

  All she wanted was to be back at the Inn with her beloved and the family who loved her for who she was and not what she was supposed to represent: a legacy. What if she became ill too? Would she have regrets as she lay dying? She’d always said life was meant to be enjoyed, but she wasn’t following her own wisdom.

  As she neared the end of the graveyard, she sighted one of her father’s oldest friends. “I missed you before the ceremony,” Joseph Khouri said, looking sharp in a dark suit. “I wanted to see if there was anything you needed. Before your father passed, God rest his soul, we spoke. He asked me to look after you. Help you usher the company through these dark times should you need assistance.”

  The company had lost money like almost every other corporate entity, save titans like Amazon or Google that would come out of this richer. “We’re doing as well as can be expected. These times have stretched us all.”

  “Indeed,” he said, nodding. “I hesitate to mention this as your father lies here only meters from us, but he would respect a business offer even in these moments. I’ve heard there are offers on the table for Merriam Enterprises’ oil and gas platforms. I know you recently were helping them restructure. I was wondering if you might query your contact there and see if he’d be open to an offer.”

  She lifted her brows. They both knew making an offer at a funeral was unusual. Based on the rumblings she’d heard, there’d been other offers. There was also gossip that the family might sell some, or all, of the prized art they’d intended to display at the museum at Emmits Merriam University. She’d paced the floors in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep to keep herself from calling Quinn and discussing his plans. That they would sell the art…

  Something must have happened.

  “Who would the offer be from?”

  His elegant jaw moved as a smile spread across his face. “Myself. The Merriams own oil wells in strategic geographic locations around the world, notwithstanding the gas reserves. Such an acquisition would be a crowning glory to my company.”

  “Indeed.” She knew Starquest Industries’ portfolio as well as she knew her own. They didn’t have the capital to make such an offer. “Joseph, who lent you the money?”

  His smile was as guarded as the name of his Italian tailor, whom he’d always refused to reveal to her father. “You know such things are not discussed.”

  That could only mean one thing. He was getting money from the Saudis. Other than Russia and China, they were the only ones with the reserves to loan billions right now. She returned his smile. “Of course not. Forgive me. It must be the grief speaking.”

  They both knew it had not been.

  He inclined his head and made a move to kiss her in the customary fashion before he stopped himself. “Old habits. Well… I will leave you. Should you need anything, come to me. Your father and I weathered many a storm through the civil war and all of the unrest in this region. You will do the same.”

  She’d been assured that all of Maroun Industries’ construction contracts would resume and not be canceled. For that, she was grateful. “Yes, I will. Thank you, Joseph.”

  After he left, she located her car. Usually she would have had a driver, but not in these times. Deciding to return home and not the office—it was a day of mourning for the company, after all, and she didn’t want gossip—she rolled down the window. The back of her neck prickled, a sign she had come to know well in her years of working as a consultant.

  She was about to see the solution to a problem.

  When the sweet smell of jasmine greeted her as she walked up the steps to her three-story villa in Achrafieh’s Golden Triangle area, she stopped short. Today she did not fight the powerful images that fought to the forefront of her consciousness. She closed her eyes and was back in Quinn’s guesthouse. They were making love, and the warmth of his body was covering her as her every breath was filled with jasmine.

  Tears filled her eyes when she finally returned to the present. The warmth she’d felt wasn’t from his hands but the rays of the sun shining down on her from an untouched blue sky in her front garden. She would never feel the warmth of Quinn again unless she did something differently.

  If she didn’t, she would die alone here in Beirut. There would be no loving husband or children to mourn her.

  This was not the life she wanted.

  She unlocked the door and let herself inside. The smell of jasmine followed her all the way to the sitting room with the arched ceilings. Suddenly the solution was before her, as clear as the mirror on her north wall. Pulling out her cell, she made a call that would rock the market and change her life.

  Joseph would have to forgive her.

  When it was finished, she found a bottle of champagne in the ice box and drank her last toast alone. She’d finally made peace with her father.

  Then she called her pilot and gave him their destination.

  Satisfied for the first time since coming to Beirut, she brought her champagne upstairs and started to pack.

  The plane ride was uneventful save for the flickering lights on the runway leaving Beirut due to the electricity shortage and rolling blackouts. While her masked flight crew had been surprised to be called in only hours after her father’s funeral, she didn’t care. The five hours passed quickly. She pulled her phone out only once to text Alice as they took off.

  Can you have someone pick me up at Dublin airport or arrange a car? Cork is closed. It’s a three-hour drive. BTW, this idiocy is done.

  Her friend’s reply came only minutes later.

  Finally! And before the three-month deadline I gave you. Did your father’s ghost speak to you as you buried him today, absolving you of your duty or something?

  She texted back:

  Creepy, and no. I’ll tell
you more about it when I see you. Ah… How will my return be received?

  She waited with a vise around her middle until Alice responded:

  With open arms by most. You’re back in a week, and that’s going to mean something. As for Quinn, he’s like a grouchy boiled egg these days. No hard shell—all wobbly with feelings—and he doesn’t much like it. But he’s been kind and he’s fighting hard to help their employees. The move to sell the art is heartbreaking, but I respect it. I thought you might hear about that and come a-calling.

  She almost laughed.

  No, it wasn’t the art. Or the offers. I have something new to put on the table. Wait until you hear. It might be my most brilliant idea yet.

  Alice texted a trio of emoticons—a dancing woman, a fist bump, and hands clapping—followed by:

  That’s pretty brilliant then. I’ll talk to Trev about arrangements and text you back with deets. Love you, and hot damn, I’m so proud of you. You were killing me here.

  She’d been killing herself, exactly as her friend had predicted. Sending back a trio of heart emoticons herself, she lifted the champagne her masked attendant had poured for her and toasted herself. Alice had told her she needed to come to peace with her father, and she’d finally done it. She’d come to peace with herself too. He had never been the father she’d wanted, but she didn’t want to blame him anymore. If she’d let him decide her future for her, she would have held it against him for the rest of her life. This move absolved all the ties he’d placed around her, and my God, how freeing it felt.

  She could only hope Quinn saw the brilliance in her plan.

  Chapter 36

  The sight of Francesca walking into the dining room stopped Quinn’s heart.