by Julia London
It was Wednesday evening when all hell broke loose, beginning when Robin came back from a late-afternoon run. She was standing in the entry, speaking through short breaths to Darren Fogerty on her cell phone when Dad made his way downstairs, taking the steps very carefully, as if his whole body hurt.
“I’ll be straight with you, Robin,” Darren was saying. “I’ve got some other options on the table. Now you have guaranteed your transport times, but the rate is a little higher than I was hoping.”
Robin cringed; the rate she had quoted him for ground transport was cheaper than any contract LTI had. To go any lower would mean approval from Evan and Dad. “Let me check on a couple of things, will you?” She glanced up as Dad came to a halt directly in front of her.
“When? I really need to wrap this up.”
“Umm, by the end of the week for sure,” she said, and nodded hopefully at Dad for confirmation, but Dad responded by angrily mimicking a fork to the mouth to remind her that it was time for dinner.
Robin covered the mouthpiece of her cell phone. “Jeez, Dad, this isn’t Luby’s,” she whispered. “I’ll be there in a minute.” Dad looked a little taken aback as she said to Darren, “Count on Friday at the very latest. Can you wait ‘til then?”
“Sure. Maybe I can take you out to dinner to celebrate.”
Robin smiled as if Darren were in the same room with her—she could feel this deal gelling very nicely. “I’d really like that, Darren. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”
With that, she flipped the little phone shut and looked at Dad. His eyes narrowed. “Who is Darren?”
Robin flushed, dropped her phone in her purse. “No one you know,” she said, and put her hands on her hips. “So, Dad, what is this dinner thing, anyway?”
His scowl deepened. “This dinner thing is to help me keep a shit-load of medicine down. I’m sorry if that interferes with your dining schedule—”
Robin instantly threw a hand up. “Sorry. I was just asking.” She brushed past him, bounding up the stairs to the shower.
“Sorry to be keeping you from your date,” he snapped after her.
God, what was the matter with him? “He’s not a date, Dad!” she called as she disappeared into the corridor above. It was obvious Dad was miserable; Mom said the medicine was making him sick and moody—he was almost tearful at times, or too angry, or too stoic. And more than once she’d caught him staring at her like he was seeing her for the first time.
God forbid anything should come up about LTI, she thought as she grabbed some panties and a camisole and headed for the shower. Everything she said was wrong. Like when he asked her about the regional sales figures. She told him that they were improving over the last quarter, but that only seemed to agitate him. “They aren’t improving! They’re abysmal! Don’t you know anything?” And when she tried to explain, he had almost twisted off into an apoplectic fit.
It wasn’t just her, either. He was constantly on Rebecca about her calls home, dogged Rachel about her eating habits, and generally seemed to despise everyone except Mom. Which, Robin thought, seemed especially bizarro, seeing as how they had been separated all these years.
The abysmal mood had not improved when Robin entered the dining room dressed in a white cotton T-shirt and faded Levi’s. Rebecca caught her eye, and with her hand, made a slashing motion across her neck. Dad didn’t see Rebecca; he was trying to drink the herbal cocktail Mom made for him every night. But when Rachel came in behind Robin, she missed Rebecca’s warning.
“Is there something I can get you, Dad? Some medicine or something?”
He shook his head, swallowed the last of the stuff with a groan.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Would everyone stop asking me if I am all right?” he snapped. “Jesus Christ, I feel like I am surrounded by a bunch of Nurse Betties!”
Rebecca rolled her eyes and went through the swinging door to the kitchen; Rachel was close on her heels, head down. Dad didn’t seem to notice; he was rubbing his eves and looked to be in pain. Reluctantly, Robin took her seat. Fortunately, the door swung open again, and it was Mom, carrying a steaming dish of beef Stroganoff.
She set the dish down and looked at Dad. “I hear you are feeling a little out of sorts.”
“I have to eat at six,” he grumbled. “You know that.”
“Fifteen minutes one way or another is not going to make a great difference. I know you are not feeling well, Aaron, and I know you are worried about any number of things, but you might try and remember that this very is hard on everyone.”
“You’d never know it was hard on anyone around here but me.”
“Oh please. The girls are walking on eggshells around you,” Mom countered, just as Rachel came through the swinging door, a bottle of wine in one hand, wineglasses in the other, and a pretzel clamped between her teeth.
“What’s that, an appetizer?” Dad muttered.
Oh man. Robin immediately grabbed a glass and made an attempt to change the heavy atmosphere. “I love Stroganoff, Mom,” she said and turned a beaming smile to Aaron. “Remember that little restaurant on Fifty-third? They had the best Stroganoff!”
“I remember. And I remember how you would send everything back because it never met your exacting standards. I used to think it was funny.” His expression clearly relayed that he no longer thought so.
“I don’t remember that,” Robin said, almost meaning it, as Rachel took her seat and a glum Rebecca slipped in the room and into a chair next to Robin.
“Well? Let’s dig in,” Mom sighed, and Robin passed the wine to Rebecca, who looked as if she could use a good belt. “Honey?” Mom said to Rebecca as she passed the salad bowl to Rachel. “Did you speak with Grayson?”
“Nooo. I guess Bud’s got something going on—they aren’t around much.”
Rachel leaned over to spoon salad onto Dad’s plate; he angrily snatched the utensil from her hand. “I can do it.” Rachel dropped the bowl like a hot dish.
Dad helped himself to salad, shifted his glare to Rebecca. “What’s this about Mr. Bud? Isn’t he crying for you to come and take his son off his hands?”
The question seemed to rattle Rebecca; unsteadily, she reached for the wine she had poured. “I didn’t talk to him.”
“Didn’t talk with him yesterday, either,” Dad said and impatiently motioned for the Stroganoff.
Rebecca responded with a long sip of wine. She grimaced, put the glass down, and looked at her hands. “Mom, Dad, there is something I need to tell you.” Mom immediately put her fork down and looked at Rebecca. Dad accepted his plate from Rachel and stabbed at the noodles. “I didn’t want to tell you this week, what with . . . well, everything,” Rebecca said, looking at Dad from the corner of her eye. “But . . . but I can’t—I need to get back to Dallas.”
“Why?” Dad demanded through a mouthful of noodles.
“Because B-Bud has left me for another woman.”
Her stunning announcement was met with a gasp of shock from Mom, deadly silence from Robin and Rachel. Dad looked relieved. “Thank God!” he said, and shoved a forkful of noodles into his mouth.
Rebecca gaped at him.
“Aaron!” Mom cried, horrified.
With a shrug, Dad pushed more noodles into his mouth, swallowing them whole. “He’s a fucking loser, Bec. You should never have married him in the first place.”
“Dad!” Robin exclaimed.
“Bud Reynolds is a bigger bastard than his old man, and trust me, that is quite an accomplishment. Good riddance, I say. It’s about damn time you found your own way in this world, Rebecca, instead of relying on men to make it for you.”
“Oh. My. God!” Rebecca whispered hoarsely and buried her face in her hands.
Shocked to the core by Rebecca’s announcement, and perhaps more so by her father’s coldhearted response, Robin stared at Dad, speechless. The old man had never been short on opinions, but this . . . this was cruel, cancer or no cancer.
&nbs
p; “That’s inexcusable, Dad,” Rachel said indignantly, voicing Robin’s thoughts. “You have no right—”
“I have every right,” he snapped, turning on her. “I have every right to say that Rebecca married a loser, that you are wasting your life with your books and that creep you call a boyfriend!” he said, stabbing his fork in the air for emphasis.
“Aaron, stop it!” Mom cried. “Stop it right now!”
Dad suddenly winced like he’d been hit in the gut. He dropped his fork, pressed a hand to his forehead.
“Dad!” Rachel exclaimed, putting her hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”
“No, I’m not all right,” he said, in obvious pain. “I am all wrong.” He lifted his head and looked at an ashen Rebecca. “I just meant to say that I never thought much of him, baby. You’re beautiful and gifted, and you could have the whole world at your feet if you’d only reach out for it. Get rid of that bastard. Go find someone who will cherish every damn moment they have with you, and settle for nothing less. Nothing less! You deserve that and more!”
They all gaped at him. Except Rebecca, who stared at her plate. Dad winced again, quickly shoved more noodles into his mouth as if he were afraid they might disappear. The room fell silent as the meal was resumed, save the occasional clink of silver on china. Rebecca had passed on the food in favor of the wine; Robin could hardly eat, either, appalled more than usual by her father.
Only Rachel seemed to have an appetite, and it was she who broke first, unable to endure the awkward silence that had surrounded them. “I . . . I learned something sort of interesting a couple of weeks ago,” she said uncertainly. Mom and Robin gratefully gave Rachel their full attention.
“Did you know that according to Nordic legend, a troll has four fingers on each hand, and four toes on each foot, and can have as many as nine heads?”
Rebecca lifted her head at that and looked at Rachel as if she had lost her mind. Which, Robin thought, she most certainly had. What was it with her and make-believe?
Rachel nodded. “I was reading about them in an old Breton manuscript—”
“Do you mean to tell me I am paying a goddamn fortune for you to read about trolls?” Dad rudely interrupted.
“Well, I . . . It was just something I found interesting and I thought—”
“Here’s something interesting—just what exactly are you going to do with a degree full of useless nonsense? I swear to God, Rachel, you are wasting your life!”
“It’s not useless, Dad. The evolution of language tells us how the human race has—”
“Like hell it isn’t. What do you think you can do with something like that?”
“Teach!” Rachel exclaimed. But she was shrinking in her chair.
“Yeah, teach, teach about trolls, for Chrissakes,” he said, shaking his head. “If you ever finish. At the rate you are going, you’ll gain fifty pounds before you do anything remotely close to finishing school. But I suppose I am to blame—if I wasn’t so ready to bankroll your perpetual schooling, you might have made something of yourself.”
“Oh, Dad,” Rebecca said wearily.
“Wh-what does that mean?” Rachel demanded. “I am something! I teach graduate classes!”
Dad gave a shout of incredulous laughter. “You wanna try living on that? Maybe you think Brian is going to help out? Wake up, Rachel! That’s life out there, not trolls and fairies and castles!”
Rachel colored. “His name is Myron,” she muttered, dipping her gaze away from him, and dropped her fork onto her plate, her appetite apparently gone.
It was more than Robin could bear. “Jesus, Dad, you are in fine form tonight, aren’t you?”
Dad shifted his gaze to Robin, braced himself against the table, and leaned forward. “Just calling them like I see them, Robbie.”
“Look, we all know you are feeling terrible, but—”
With a snort of laughter, Dad cut her off. “You have no idea what you are talking about, baby girl.”
God, how condescending—she hated when he spoke to her like that. “Don’t I? You’ve been snapping at us for two days now, disapproving of everything we do.”
“Well, forgive me if I am a little testy, but I am dying of cancer.”
“Dad, you are feeling so bad that you think you can say anything—”
“I can say anything!” he roared, slapping his palm against the tabletop so hard that the silver clattered loudly against the china. “I can say whatever I want to say in the short time I have left. I can tell my children that I have ruined them! You’re all too weak and self-indulgent to make it without me!”
“Aaron—”
“Don’t, Bonnie,” he warned her. “I’ve had enough of her arrogance!” he shouted, gesturing wildly at Robin.
So now suddenly she was arrogant? “Oh, that’s rich!” Robin said indignantly.
“You don’t believe me? It was your damn arrogance that cost us the Herrera account!”
Robin felt the blood drain from her face. She hadn’t told him—Evan. Dammit! She suddenly came forward, her elbows hitting the cherrywood table. “That is so unfair! Whatever Evan told you, it was a mistake—”
“Your mistake! You were the one playing in London while one of my oldest accounts was trying to get something very basic and very fundamental fixed!”
“I wasn’t playing in London, I had gone there to check on two accounts—”
“No, to run away from Evan Iverson, just like you run from all of them—”
Robin gasped. “That is really none of your business, Dad!”
“Well in this case, it is my business, or are you so arrogant you have forgotten even that?”
Robin fell back against her chair, disbelieving. “Dad, when are you going to let me live my life?”
“Right now!” he exclaimed heatedly. “Don’t you see? I want you to live, Robbie! I want you to stop running away and take a risk, but I am afraid you are too goddam full of yourself—”
“Stop it!” Mom cried.
“No, Mom, let him go,” Robin said, her voice suddenly shaking. “Let him tell me what a rotten daughter I’ve been, how I’ve done nothing for the company, how I’ve failed to give it my all and marry his golden star Evan. Come on, Dad, tell me what a failure I am! And while you are telling me, let me tell you that I have been working around the clock to bring you a new client, one bigger and better than any you have! I’ve been working like a dog to bring you Atlantic Cargo and Shipping!” she cried, almost shouting in her triumph.
Her announcement stopped Dad cold. He stared at her, inhaled sharply. “Atlantic?” he finally managed in a hoarse whisper. “Oh God, what have you done? Are you insane? Do you even know who Atlantic is?”
“Only the biggest shipping company between here and the Far East,” she said smartly, in spite of the terribly cold and sudden feeling of uncertainty. “And they are looking for a new partner in ground transport.”
“They are also Canada Shipping and Ocean Transport’s biggest competitor. God, Robbie, do you have any idea who pays your salary? Who pays mine? Did you ever stop to think who Atlantic’s chief competitor might be?”
“What?” she asked weakly, feeling the ground shift beneath her. Beside her, Rebecca muttered something unintelligible; Rachel guzzled her wine. “What do you mean?”
“What I mean,” Dad said, suddenly sounding weary, “is the reason we don’t have the Atlantic account already is because we have CSOT. When those two ships dock, it just won’t do to transport the biggest competitor to our chief client, will it? Why? Because we are a large part of the reason CSOT is so successful, Robin. When they dock, we get their freight to the distributors FASTER AND CHEAPER THAN ATLANTIC!” he roared.
“Oh God,” she whispered, stunned that she could have missed something so basic.
Dad pressed his hand to his forehead, seemed to be in pain— physical or emotional, Robin wasn’t sure. “I should have taught you,” he said miserably. “But I stuck you in a vice presidency and se
nt you off to Europe to run around and look pretty.”
Whoa. Had she heard that that right? He’d sent her to Europe to look pretty? “What did you say?”
“Well, surely no harm has been done,” Mom said quickly. “I mean, Robbie, you didn’t sign anything, did you?”
Stunned, hurt, and whacked right off her pedestal, Robin could hardly think. “No, Mom,” she responded impatiently. “I didn’t sign anything, but I made certain assurances . . . oh, never mind, you wouldn’t understand—”
“That’s exactly what I am talking about!” Dad snapped again. “Arrogant!”
Robin jerked her head up, glared at her father. “If I’m arrogant,” she said between clenched teeth, “I learned it from the master.” She suddenly shoved to her feet, tossed her napkin aside. “I am so out of here.”
“Robin!” Mom exclaimed, coming to her feet, prepared to follow. But Robin was too quick, out the door before Mom could stop her, spurred on by the pain of her father’s disdain.
Behind her, Bonnie bestowed a very heated gaze on Aaron. “You just never seem to get it, do you? You will reap what you sow!” she snapped, and went after Robin.
There was no amount of appeal from her mother that would change Robin’s mind to leave Blue Cross Ranch. Robin was sick to death of tiptoeing around him, of watching him wallow in self-pity. She packed quickly, tossed her things into the back of her car, and said a quick good-bye to her sisters, promising to call soon.
She hugged her mom and reluctantly bowed to her pressure to at least say good-bye to Dad. Robin poked her head into the library to tell her sulking father she was leaving, but naturally, he wasn’t about to let her go without one last dig, and even that was delivered under the pretense of an apology.
He was sitting in a big leather chair, hunched over. “I shouldn’t have yelled,” he said instantly. “I know you were trying to help.”
“Yeah, well,” she muttered, shrugging, uncertain what to say, because she had, apparently, been very wrong. She felt like a monumental fool, a silly little girl playing grown-up games. She could just see Evan’s little smirk in her mind’s eye, hear him say in that way of his, I tried to tell you. . . .