Forgotten Father

by Carol Rose

  “Good morning, Pat. How are you today?”

  “Fine,” chirped the secretary.

  Pat, Mitchell thought, committing the name to memory, as he turned back to his faxing.

  “Delanie wanted to know if you’d found that invoice she mentioned to you?”

  “Oh, yes,” Pat said, sifting through the piles on her desk and pulling free a piece of paper she then handed to the other woman.

  “Thanks.” Connie tucked the paper inside a folder she carried.

  “While you’re here,” Pat said. “Celia in Housekeeping wanted me to find out if Delanie ordered those bedspreads that needed replacing.”

  “Those spreads shouldn’t have worn out so quickly,” Connie said, her voice severe. “Del wants to go back to the manufacturer and have them replaced at no cost.”

  “So we’re waiting to see if they’ll do that?”

  Mitchell turned away from the fax machine to see Connie frown, shaking her head.

  “No, not exactly. They weren’t made by the manufacturer Delanie thought supplied them and she can’t remember exactly where she got them.”

  “Oh?” Pat said sympathetically, “I’d forget where I left my children, if they’d let me.”

  “Those bedspreads were a last minute purchase that Delanie handled herself,” Connie said, still frowning. “It was during the time just before her accident.”

  Accident? Mitchell shifted away from the noise of the fax machine to hear what Delanie’s assistant was saying.

  Delanie had been in an accident?

  “…her memory around that time is bad,” Connie continued, “but she’s having our office in Boston go through the invoices for the job.”

  “Good.” Pat nodded.

  “Of course, we wouldn’t have to go to all that trouble,” Connie declared in disgust, “if the laundry hadn’t removed all the tags from the spreads.”

  “Excuse me,” Mitchell interrupted unceremoniously. “Your Delanie’s assistant, right?”

  “Yes, sir. Connie Taylor. We met a few weeks ago.”

  “I remember,” he said.

  “Delanie had some personal stuff to attend to this morning,” her assistant said with a guarded expression. “She asked me to come in and take care of a few things.”

  Mitchell looked at the woman, only vaguely aware of the secretary, Pat, leaving the office.

  “Good, I’m sure you’re very capable,” he said absently. “Did you say something just now about Ms. Carlyle having had an accident?”

  “No,” Connie said quickly, “not today. The accident happened over a year ago.”

  “Oh,” Mitchell said slowly. “A year ago?”

  “A year and a half.” The dark-haired woman looked at him gravely.

  “That would have been around the time my grandfather was re-opening The Cedars?” Mitchell prompted. Any information might help him in getting rid of Delanie.

  “Yes,” Connie said, her eyes still wary, “it actually happened the weekend The Cedars reopened. That Sunday morning.”

  The morning he’d thrown her off the property, he realized. She’d acted upset as she ran from the lake. Had she left him and gotten into her car?

  The office door opened and Pat returned to sit down at her desk, a cup of coffee in her hands.

  “Was she badly hurt?” Mitchell asked, ignoring the secretary’s entrance.

  God, Delanie had been injured all the time he’d been dismissing her from his mind?

  “No. Her car went off the road. She might have bumped her head. We don’t know exactly what happened. She doesn’t remember much.”

  “She actually has amnesia,” Pat interrupted, her voice rising with excitement. “Just like on the soaps.”

  “Not exactly,” Connie demurred, casting a repressive glance at the secretary.

  “Amnesia?” Mitchell echoed, disbelieving. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No,” Connie said, her arms wrapped around the files she held close to her chest. “But it’s not really like the soaps. She didn’t ever lose her identity. She just went blank on a few weeks. The doctors said it could have been the shock from the impact of the car. Or it could have been something else. Whatever caused it, she’s perfectly fine now.”

  “But those weeks are completely blank,” Pat reiterated, her face avid. “Can you imagine? Losing entire weeks of your life?”

  “Listen,” Connie said, sidling toward the door. “We’ll take care of those bedspreads.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Mitchell said, stopping her before she could leave the room. “Are you saying that Delanie can’t remember weeks before she had the accident?”

  “Yes.” Connie paused beside the door, clearly ready to end the conversation.

  “Can you imagine?” Pat exclaimed, her interest obviously lurid. “Why, she could have robbed a bank or committed a murder during that time and she wouldn’t remember a thing about it.”

  She could have seduced her lover’s grandson…and forgotten all about it?

  “Delanie’s not like that. She’d never rob a bank,” her assistant said hotly. “It’s just a fluke that she can’t remember those few days. A silly little blip in the brain, that’s all. The doctors say it happens like that sometimes.”

  Mitchell stared at the woman as she slipped out the door, his mind reeling with this new perspective on Delanie’s acting as if she didn’t know him.

  She’d actually forgotten his existence? Forgotten the raw passion they’d shared? Was that possible?

  “Is there something else I can do for you, Mr. Riese?” Pat asked, bringing him back to the awareness that he was standing in front of her desk, staring at the closed door.

  “No,” he said, gathering up the contract. “No, thank you. I’ve finished this.”

  “If you need anything else, I’ll be glad to help,” she offered.

  “Thank you,” he muttered, leaving the office.

  As he crossed the lobby, his natural skepticism reasserted itself. Who the heck in real life ever got amnesia? You heard about things like that on the news sometimes. A person disappearing and then being discovered years later living as another person and claiming no memory of their past.

  But the fact that these stories made it to the news was an indication of just how rare the occurrence was. Delanie had to be pulling some kind of scam, hoping he’d accept her inheritance of The Cedars, if she never acknowledged their night together or the confrontation the following day.

  That had to be it, he told himself.

  Could she have really managed what he could not? Had she forgotten him completely?

  It didn’t seem possible. Even if she’d slept with a hundred men who’d given her an equally good time, she couldn’t have forgotten the ugly scene by the lake.

  But her assistant had seemed so…honest. So removed from pretense. He couldn’t see that woman giving so consummate a performance, if performance it had been. And the idea that Delanie had somehow plotted this out over a year ago, somehow pretending even with her assistant, didn’t make sense.

  And why do it? Why fake a blank memory when she already had legal right to half The Cedars? Unless, she thought her forgetfulness would influence him to adopt the same attitude.

  Still, a genuine case of amnesia—if there was such a thing—would explain the baffled look on her face when he made references to their past.

  It would explain her easy, friendly response to him in the beginning…and her turning him down sexually the other night.

  No. That still remained a mystery. Her behavior when they first met left no doubt in his mind that Delanie took lovers easily.

  So what if she’d forgotten him before…as unbelievable as that seemed. Why didn’t she want him now? Or more accurately, why wouldn’t she let herself act on the lust between them now?

  Closing the door to his grandfather’s old office, Mitchell sat down at the desk.

  The woman intrigued him…baffled and frustrated him. He needed to get close
r, to study her reactions. Then he’d know if she were really a mixed up, memory-deficient flake…or a scheming tart out to steal more of his fortune.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “You wanted to see me?” Delanie asked as she stepped into the conservatory. Humidity-loving greenery abounded around her, creating a jungle backdrop, but the man who stood beside the empty fountain wore a suit and tie, as business-like as usual.

  He was too serious.

  Repressing a smile, along with the urge to rumple his hair, she waited for his response.

  “Yes, I did.” Mitchell shoved his hands in his pants pockets and frowned at her. “Richardson from maintenance has some concerns about this part of the building.”

  He glanced around the shrubbery-choked room.

  The conservatory projected out to the rear of the main building. All glass panes on three sides, it lie like a lush corner of Eden, filled with the rustling impression of tropical greenery thrusting its way through the soil.

  Delanie loved the place. It shrieked of Victorian excess and drama. Of enchanted secrets and promises. Its dark alcoves held a thousand small, quiet places to hide.

  Clearly immune to enchantments, Mitchell continued impersonally, “Richardson’s not sure if we should remove the conservatory entirely or make costly structural repairs to maintain it. I want your opinion.”

  “Oh, of course,” she said, pleased at his treating her like a member of the decision-making team. They were finally getting somewhere!

  “There are roof problems that may be contributed to by the humidity with all these flower beds and the tons of dirt. Richardson tells me making the necessary repairs would be a big investment. The only real question is how removing this part of the house will effect the general look of the building.” He glanced at her dispassionately. “I thought we might as well make use of your expertise.”

  Delanie stared at him.

  Her only expertise, he might as well have said. She fought the urge to tell him where he could shove his sardonic smile and condescending attitude.

  Instead, she mastered the impulse and smiled at him blandly. “Of course, I’ll be glad to tell you what I think of removing this part of the building.”

  She paused and then pronounced succinctly, “Lousy, stinkin’ idea.”

  Mitchell frowned, his blue eyes going dark. “Perhaps you’d like to explain how you arrive at this elegantly-phrased conclusion.”

  “Okay.” She strolled further into the stone-floored room, turning to face him. “First off, I’m new to the hotel ownership situation, but even I know we have a tremendous amount of competition for our customers’ vacation dollar. In addition, we have seasonal limitations that don’t factor into sunnier resorts. Thirdly, we’re situated out here in the middle of God’s country with no major entertainment complex to draw guests.”

  “What’s your point?” he asked tersely, pivoting to follow her as she walked further into the jungle, the afternoon sun filtering through the glass-paned walls.

  “I’ll tell you,” she said, running one hand along a large leaf of vivid green. “What we’re selling here is service and atmosphere. Coming to The Cedars is like stepping back in time to a more gracious, more relaxed era. The conservatory is part of that.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you that, but the place still has to pay for itself,” Mitchell argued as he followed her around a turn in the path. “We’re not running a charity here.”

  “Yes,” Delanie said dryly, “money would always be the bottom line.”

  “Naturally,” he said with complete conviction. “The Cedars is a business.”

  Delanie leaned back against a large, decorative rock that looked like it had occupied that space since Noah’s flood. “True, but The Cedars is also a big part of your family history.”

  She caught a flicker of something in his eyes and wondered for a moment if he were as set on demolishing the conservatory as he claimed. Had she been called into fight for something he didn’t want to let go of, but couldn’t find a reason to keep?

  “My family built a number of successful industries,” he told her, an annoying thread of disdain in his words. “Sentimentality hasn’t made us a penny.”

  Standing there in the midst of lush vegetation, his crisp white shirt collar beginning to wilt and his dark hair curling slightly in the humidity, he looked suddenly less perfect. And the slightest bit vulnerable, despite the superior tone of his words.

  Shaking off the silly, fanciful impression, Delanie straightened from the boulder and walked over to press her face into a riotously blooming hibiscus. The perfume of the rich pink blossoms clung to her skin as she turned around…and caught a glimmer of something decidedly passionate in his eyes.

  It was quickly banished, but not before she gained a rapid impression of heat and hunger mixed with a very faint uncertainty.

  Mitchell Riese wasn’t as sure of himself as he seemed, she thought, surprised. Apparently, he wasn’t always the arrogant, good-looking jerk who revved her heartbeat while making her want to hit him.

  “You grew up here, didn’t you?”

  His expression shuttered. “Not exactly. We lived in New York most of the time.”

  “But you vacationed here?” she persisted. “Spent the summers with your grandparents?”

  “Yes,” he said, reaching up to loosen his tie in his only concession to the hot house temperature. “It was my grandmother’s favorite vacation spot.”

  Delanie tugged a blossom free of the hibiscus and stuck it over her ear. “I’ll bet you had family holidays here. Celebrated birthdays and Christmas?”

  “A few times,” he said, the shadows in his eyes shifting to a brooding blue. “But that has nothing to do with whether or not we sink hundreds of thousands of dollars of revenue into maintaining what is essentially an over-grown flower box.”

  “I bet there are some really old plants in here, too,” Delanie said, ignoring his irritable declaration. If he wanted her to play Devil’s Advocate, she could easily do so.

  When had Mitchell Riese lost touch with his heart? Emotion was a perfectly valid basis for some decisions. It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford to keep the conservatory. The man was a millionaire ten times over.

  “Yes,” Mitchell agreed briefly, “there are a number of unique specimens…which could easily be removed and preserved by a local horticulture club.”

  “This was your grandmother’s place, wasn’t it? This and the gardens?”

  “Yes,” he said, his frowning gaze on the flower in her hair.

  “What a tremendous history you have here,” she said, wandering over to an old garden bench. The wispy fronds of a giant fern extended over the bench like an awning. She sat down, the slanting afternoon sunlight throwing a patchwork of light on the stones at her feet.

  “I’ll bet you had huge family reunions here,” she said in a reminiscent tone.

  “Not really.” Mitchell sat down on a bench facing hers across the flagged path. “As you’ll remember from the attorney’s recitation of my family tree, I’m the only one left.”

  Delanie frowned. “That’s right. No uncles and aunts. No cousins. It must have been lonely here with just your grandparents and your mom and dad.”

  “Not at all,” he denied. “My grandfather and father were both avid sportsmen. We fished while my grandmother gardened. It was a very peaceful childhood.”

  “What did your mother do?” Delanie asked humorously, “fish or garden?”

  “Neither,” Mitchell replied matter-of-factly. “According to my father, her favorite activities were shopping and going to parties. She was never here after they divorced.”

  According to my father…? He didn’t have first hand knowledge of his mother’s favorite activities?

  “How old were you then?” She brushed aside the niggle of compassion. Lots of people had dysfunctional families. You coped. Learned to go on. Sucked it up and realized your parents were human, too.

  “Eight years old,” he said before
abruptly changing the subject. “According to Richardson, we’ll have to replace most of the roof—“

  “You were eight when your family broke up?” Delanie said with a rush of tenderness for the child he’d been. “That’s so young. And you lived with your father after that? Your mother must have been devastated to have lost custody.”

  “Yes.” The sardonic expression in his eyes deepened.

  “You saw her for visitation though, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said carelessly. “She was busy traveling, but we managed to cross paths a few times.”

  Cross paths? That’s all the mothering he’d received? Occasional air-kisses and a waft of perfume?

  Thinking of her own loving mother, Delanie looked at him, doing her best to keep the pity out of her eyes. So there really were poor little rich kids.

  “Is she still alive?” Delanie asked. “Your mother? I don’t remember the lawyer mentioning her, but I suppose if she and your father divorced all those years ago, she doesn’t fit into the family inheritance.”

  “No, to both questions,” he said, a remote, dismissive expression on his face. “So you think we should spend the money to re-roof the conservatory?”

  “Yes,” she said, tacitly accepting his change of subject this time. “Think of the guests’ children who play in here. Those two boys who left as I came in.”

  “Yes,” Mitchell agreed. “I still don’t think it’s the best decision to rebuild a roof for an overgrown thicket. But it is a great place for a kid to play.”

  “When you were small, did you play Tarzan in here?” she asked teasingly, “or did you always aspire to wear a suit and tie?"

  He shot her a sideways glance. “I liked the jungle as much as any other healthy boy. It has more in common with the business world than you might think.”

  Noting the edge to his words, she hid a smile and said, “How lonely you must have been, playing here by yourself.”

  Mitchell leaned back against the bench, watching her with an enigmatic expression. “Just because I didn’t have siblings or cousins, didn’t mean I played alone. There are always kids here.”